


I, Vampire

by Rector



Series: I, Vampire [1]
Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: F/M, Gen, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft-centric, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:57:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 110,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3342797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rector/pseuds/Rector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part I</p><p>Mycroft Holmes sits at the epicentre of everything British, the man at the clandestine heart of Government whose unspoken quest is to defeat all that dare threaten his self-appointed national responsibility.</p><p>He has held the role of secret defender for a very long time; as a Chief of Boudica’s armies, as spy to the royal courts of medieval Europe and éminence grise in World War II.</p><p>Warrior, protector, vampire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in which all manner of things are explained.

 

He rarely slept anymore, and when he did, it was a listless shadow of sleep barely worth the name. Fortunately, slumber, like many other things in his existence, was something he no longer required in the conventional sense. And so he sat tonight, still, silent and unsleeping as he did almost every night, though it might as well have been the middle of the day for all it mattered. With his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his vision was focused on the murky haze of infinity and while his eyes saw only the immediate darkness, his mind perceived the vast trail of years, of the decades and centuries that had brought him to this year, this day, this hour.

It was precisely two thousand years ago to this day that he had died.

Mycroft eased his posture and stretched a little in his chair. Though dead, he still felt discomfort when sitting too long in the same position, albeit more a psychological ache than one of poor circulation. On this day of all days, it had become impossible to keep his mind from casting itself back to his death and dwelling, self-indulgent though it was, on the events which killed him.

It had been a time of great peace and harmony in the land, where the old gods of Albion held sway in the lush Britannic countryside, before the invaders arrived in their heavy transports and their armoured leather kilts, carrying sharp pointed steel swords and long red shields. The Romans were fierce and fearless warriors, but so too were the Britons, none more so than the Queen of them all, _Boudica_. Even now, even after all this time, he could still hear her regal voice commanding the burning of Camulodunum and Londinium and the sacking of Verulanium where death had gushed red in the streets.

And Mycurrought of Isca, as he had been then, had gloried in it all; as a Commander of Boudica's Iceni, he had not been immune to the exultation of battle and a bloodlust slaked only by the visceral deaths of the enemy. He was good at death.

But the Romans were better.

In the last great battle, his injuries were mortal and with darkening eyes and slowing heart, he bade his servants carry him deep into the Oakwood and lay him quiet beneath the loftiest tree they could find; his blood and his bones a fitting bequest for the greatest of all the creatures in his beloved land. And so he had died.

Only to awaken wrapped within unbearably strong arms and with an agonising pain at his throat that seemed to him to be the blackest nightmare of hell; such blinding pain coursing through his rivened body as if all the lords of misrule were tearing him apart, at war for his soul. His torment was extreme and for brief seconds he had thought he was still dying a mortal death.

Which in a way, he was.

His eyes, clouded and dulling but a short time before were now burning with the livid light of a fire not feet from where he lay, yet though the flames were close, he felt no heat. It was as if a skin of ice had bound itself to his frame, a thing of biting anguish and the bitter snows of winter.

A hand, a mortal hand supported the back of his head, while another held up a goblet to his mouth and he felt himself forced to swallow a hot, viscous liquid that set another blaze inside him as raw and bright as the one not three hand-spans from his shaking limbs. He scorched internally, but not from any fire he knew, his vision all at once brighter and yet simultaneously darkened by fear and excruciating pain. The inner flames swelled and spread until he could bear it no longer and he died a second time.

The pale light of early dawn greeted Mycurrought at his next awakening. Both conflagrations, inside and out, were extinguished now; the grey ashes of the bonfire barely warm at his side, the incandescence at his core sunk to a near-tolerable smoulder. A roughly-tanned cow's hide covered his curled body as he lay among the sparse undergrowth, the crude blanket keeping almost every part of him away from the light of day. It had slipped a little from his face, and the streams of the rising sun hurt as much as they caressed. With feeble tugs, he brought the heavy cured skin up and over his head and in the false darkness, he slept again.

It was the sounds of the night which had finally roused him; owls and the distant yap of a fox. He pushed himself into a sitting position, though he felt as stiff and unwieldy as the primitively treated leather that fell away at his movement. Running a hand across his face, his skin was cool and dry, but lacking the deathly chilliness of the afterlife he was expecting. Was he dead? He was certain his injuries had done for him; it seemed impossible that he could have survived such physical offences. Scrabbling at his clothing, he traced fingers inside his shirt to locate the final killing wound just beside his heart.

There was nothing. Not even a scar.

Nor, he realised a few moments later, was there a heartbeat.

Sitting on the forest floor in the dark, with the flurry of night-predators in the air and the dampness of earth and decaying leaves beneath him, Mycurrought realised he was in one of three situations, none of which filled him with immediate joy. Either he _wasn't_ dead, but was hallucinating, a bad sign surely if his hallucinations were this powerful. If not already dead, he must be very close to it, especially after the wounds he had taken in his final battle. Or, if he _had_ died, then perhaps he had already crossed into the Fortunate Isles and instead of drinking wine and meeting old comrades was, for some unknown reason, sitting in a forest in the middle of the night. The third and least palatable possibility was that he had died ... but that he had not died quite _enough_.

There were things spoken of beyond the grave. Draugrs ... _Again-walkers_ , but they were dreadful creatures that carried the grave and the stench of decay with them wherever they went. And somehow, he didn't _feel_ like he was dead.

Assessing his condition, he realised that no matter how odd his situation, there were at least some positives. He had no pain whatsoever now, nor did he appear to have any lasting negative effects from any of his recent injuries, rather the opposite, in fact. Even the finger he'd lost from his sword-hand to a bronze dagger seemed to have grown back as if it had never been gone, save for a grey circumferential scar at the base. And while the night was dark and unlit by anything save a feeble slice of moon and the distant glitter of stars, Mycurrought found he could see and hear perfectly well, even down to noting the hairs on the back of his hand and the faintest twitter of bats overhead. His skin seemed pale but essentially unmarred and he had not yet been able to find any of the major scars he had gathered in the years of war. This was indeed passing strange.

Perhaps, if he really was dreaming, he should test the hypothesis by attempting to walk away from this landscape; it was well known that a dreamer could not leave the site of dreams behind; they followed wherever the dreamer went.

Struggling to his feet, his hands brushing against a small leather bag as he pushed himself up against the rough bole of the large tree under which he appeared to have been sheltering. Picking up the soft leather purse, the contents clinked and jingled faintly in his fingers. Whoever his saviour had been, they had left him with more than just his life. How intriguing. Mycurrought raised himself to his full and unusual height. He was tall among his people and therefore a natural target in the time of battle as he had found on several occasions.

Taking a deep breath, even though that too was more from habit than necessity, he started walking away from the ashes of the old fire, then stopped, returning to fold up the large cow-hide. It had served him well as a shelter and who knew what need he might have for it before the next night arrived. The hide was a full skin, covered in strange, arcane markings and in his undoubtedly weakened state should have felt onerously heavy, yet tucked beneath his arm; its weight was barely even noticeable. An additional fact of strangeness was added to the growing tally.

His long legs and uncannily clear vision soon found him clear of the trees and Mycurrought looked back over his shoulder. Not a dream, then. He frowned at the smell of blood and carnage that lay heavy in the air he turned to scan what had clearly been the site of a huge battle; a vast number of bodies stiff and hideous on the grassy sward around him. Casualties lay piled up against each other in a final union of violence and consequence; Romans and Britons both, white and motionless in the scrape of a moon. There had to be hundreds of corpses here.

So what did that make him? Not alive but not quite dead?

Wrinkling his nose at the rising miasma of death, he knew there would be no purpose in looking for the living here; he needed to try and find what was left of the Queen's army if his queen was yet alive, or perhaps some hermit-priest who could tell him more about his strange revival. He could do nothing without information, and he would not find that at this place of human ruin. Tucking the hide more securely under his arm, he turned his back on the tragic battlefield and walked towards his future.

Towards today, had he but known it then.

The black phone on his desk rang softly but he ignored it; at this time of night, it was clearly some unthinking overseas Control who neglected to consider time zones and therefore it could keep. Had it been the red phone, he would have answered. He had also muted his personal device, knowing that this day would not be an easy one for him; he had first turned it off, then relented, changing it to silent so an intrusive buzz would not disrupt his thoughts. His entire staff had been sent to a self-development seminar not due to finish before six and thus he had engineered events so that he might be perfectly alone with his thoughts and his contemplations, precisely as he desired, his mood not conducive to a productive workplace environment. And so he had remained alone and in the growing dark with nothing but his memories and reflections.

Reaching out an elegant hand, he brought the near-empty crystal tumbler to his lips and sipped the smoky golden spirit within. Along with scant need for sleep, Mycroft no longer required or desired the digestion of food ... not human food, at least. The idea of solid nourishment had been left as far in the past as had his ancient humanity, but his body was still able to tolerate certain comestibles, one of which, as he was rather pleased to verify on a regular basis, was high-end scotch. The particular Glenlivet of this evening was fifty years old and cost more per bottle than some of his junior staff earned in a year. He savoured every sip with something approaching genuine passion, the warming glow of the aromatic malt lingering deep inside him for hours. He would gladly have paid twice its cost for that alone.

Which he could do, if he chose. In fact, there was not a lot he couldn't do these days, one way or another. He was independently wealthy of course; one of the great boons of immortality being an ongoing access to the wonders of compound interest. At every reasonable occasion, he'd invest a decent chunk of cash in some very long-term speculative venture and simply forget about it for thirty or forty years. In the last few decades, he'd already made more than sufficient money to last him well into the following century, even at his present rate of expenditure and considering his expensive tastes.

And he did indeed have expensive tastes. Being only too well aware of the transience of everything, even of the great white cliffs that framed his island nation, Mycroft had quickly realised that he had no desire to keep replacing possessions. Thus, he made it a practice to select only the very best, not simply because he preferred quality, which of course one did, but more realistically, because the better quality things lasted longer. If he could wear a classic suit for five years instead of having to go through the routine of being fitted for a new one every five minutes, then the choice was obvious. Consequently, almost everything in his life was inevitably faultless and the envy of many, and not just his wardrobe.

Unfortunately, despite there being a number of solid gains on the positive side of immortality, Mycroft would, had he been in any discussion of the topic, have been the first to concede there were an equal number of detractions. But though there were things he would have changed if he could, after two thousand years of this particular form of existence, his outlook was pragmatic to say the least.

At the hour of his death, he had been in his mid-forties and still vigorous and hale. Since that time, he had not aged, not by a single day. His hair was still as dark as it ever had been and his skin, though paler now without regular exposure to the sun, was worn and lined only as much as it had been when the final sword-thrust stopped his heart. He grew neither older nor weaker as time had passed, instead, becoming stronger and seemingly more endurable with each decade. He did not eat, which made socialising difficult and he almost never slept, which made working easier. There were some things, the softer, human things, he no longer valued, just as he increasingly relished matters of the intellect. While his body had remained more or less unchanged to the naked eye, his mind had grown more powerful over the millennia and he was now able to oversee vast projects almost without leaving his chair. This was just as well. To offset an inevitable _ennui_ , he had taken to observing the political movements of nations, rebellions and the great social concords: Heads of State became chess-pieces and he watched, fascinated, as governments, kings and queens, rose and fell. At first, he had relied on the tales of travellers, of sailors and merchants, and he grew to know the great ports of Plymouth, Portsmouth and London, where all the ships came to lay at anchor.

Then there were the written manuscripts, the literatures and philosophies of the priests, of the messengers of the ever-changing continental map. Mycroft pored over any document he could find, anything at all that spoke of international events and the life-and-deaths of those whose merest utterance could shape nations. Gutenberg printed his Bible and suddenly there were books; marvellous, wondrous things that carried precious words of knowledge first in German and Latin but then in an explosion of languages and increasing complexities. Mycroft accumulated hundreds of them wherever he could, creating his own libraries that contained all manner of information and detail with everything from hand-drawn maps and private letters to printed copies of Papal Bulls. He became increasingly aware of the ebb and flow of political tides, of the smallest actions that led, eventually, to the greatest revolutions. He learned to comprehend the power of secrets and determined to acquire them all.

At first, he engaged in fractional conversations at the edge of royal courts, then in coffee houses with the writers of plays. He became something of a fixture, albeit a fleeting one, at the political _salons_ of the day, his words increasingly sought by those whose futures were in the public domain, though he himself could never be persuaded to step into the light on his own accord. Britain, _his_ Britain, became the centre of the world and he was determined to secure her from the dangers he saw elsewhere. Over the centuries, he gradually returned to his guise of warrior, but this time as a secret guardian at the very epicentre of the British Government.

And he was still very good at death.

Of course, his life was very different from that of most people in this modern new age, but he had made of it the best he could. There was really only one area that still caused him something of a concern, though extreme age appeared to be dealing with that too. Mostly. Though he could no longer enjoy or digest the organic material that went into human meals, on increasingly rare occasions he still required that which humans themselves provided. Not to put too fine a point on things, once or twice a year he found himself needing to consume something a little more substantial than high-end scotch.

 _Blood_. A considerable quantity of fresh blood. Pints of the stuff, in fact.

At first, he had flinched away from the idea of ingesting such a thing, but his body's demands eventually overcame his squeamishness. The early Britons had often used animal blood in a variety of foodstuffs; sausages and gravies for instance, but he had never attempted it _au naturel_ , nor, thankfully, did the European notion of bathing in the blood of young virgins hold the slightest appeal. Despite his resistance, the increasingly overwhelming craving eventually conquered his repugnance and he tried a variety of species as sources before arriving at the somewhat tiresome conclusion that the human version was indeed the most effective solution for the craving when it arrived. Regrettable though it might be, he was pragmatic enough to accept he had little control over this particular inclination and thus went about securing a necessary supply with the same logic he applied to everything else in his life.

The arrival of fangs, several weeks after his dramatic revival in the wood, had been disquieting at first, but they were neat, compact things which stayed well out of the way as a general rule. However, Mycroft refused to play the predatory beast in any of this and, in the beginning, began by paying the poor for small quantities of fresh blood as he wandered from town to town searching for his lost Queen. Pretending it was for religious sacrificial purposes, the individuals he approached were only too glad to take his coin to ask too many questions. If he was careful, and he always was, he could harvest a reasonable quantity in only a few days. But it was slow work, and the temptation to simply prey on those unable to withstand his greater strength was difficult to resist at times, especially when his hunger grew compelling.

Today though, it was very different. For anyone with almost unlimited wealth, there were ways of acquiring such a ... resource. The easiest and most legitimate method was to arrange for a large transfusion direct from a series of willing and well-paid donors; generous payments ensuring there were no questions. Not too much was taken from any single individual, but enough, cumulatively, to revitalise him entirely. And while he was able to exist quite well on any of the blood-types, after the development of the blood-classification system in the early nineteen-hundreds, Mycroft discovered that he actually did better on a diet of A-Positive . It was a minor thing really, but when indulged, seemed to ward off the returning craving by several additional months.

Thus, in a world where musicians and celebrities of the silver screen routinely undertook entire-body transfusions for the sake of extended youth and vitality, his minor requirement had become a very small matter. Such a necessity could also offer a convenient proof, were such a thing ever demanded of him, of a rare disorder which – yes, oh, you poor man, how terrible for you – left him unable to walk outside in the full light of the midday sun. He was well able to manage _some_ daylight, but the full sun hurt his eyes and made him impossibly drowsy. Fortunately, his smart suits kept him almost completely covered and he carried a large black umbrella at all times to ward off the odd, unexpected sunburst. No-one in his circle of acquaintances, such as they were, would ever be so boorish as to comment on either his pallor or extraordinary, un-aging longevity.

Mycroft had also taken pains to ensure he had all the conveniences of modern transportation, acquiring a range of motor vehicles, over the last eighty years or so, from the Jaguar Company. The notion of these lush beasts as means of everyday conveyance pleased him, especially since his were invariably black, with sun-blocking black-tinted windows. The growl of their engines as the car moved either under his own control or that of one of his drivers, provided his inner primitive with no little pleasure.

However, men of wealth and high-fortune inevitably attracted a coterie of hangers-on but other than a certain Mr Teddy Darrenveld, Head Cutter at Gieves and Hawkes, Mycroft had little affection for anyone. It took almost no effort to be seen as cold and withdrawn, even his co-founding in the eighteen-eighties, of _The Diogenes_ , a gentleman's club where public socialisation was strictly forbidden, raised not a single eyebrow. After all the years of his existence, it was easier and less painful to keep his life uncluttered by attachment. Notwithstanding his other-than-human lifestyle, he had, over the long centuries, formed a number of personal relationships. Despite his best intentions, strangers had sometimes become unexpected acquaintances before morphing, on a number of occasions, into lovers and friends. Yet even as he relished the warmth of sensual companionship or fleeting camaraderie, his heart was cold, knowing, as only he could, of the ephemeral nature of life. He kept such _liaisons_ deliberately short-lived and rare. It was too hard to watch them die in both the literal and figurative sense. In all the years, he had never heard of any others such as himself; to all intents and purposes, he was alone, and it was best kept that way, changing his last name as frequently as necessary to break any possibly trail.

Thus he possessed no animals as pets, no colleagues as close confidants and ruthlessly avoided any form of personal interaction. The closest he came to intimacy with another human being was at his bi-annual infusion, but even as the warm blood flowed into his tingling fingertips, he was always shielded by curtained screens, beyond the curious sight of his willing donors. He refused even the smallest overtures of friendship. To an immortal, caring was not an advantage.

And yet, despite his determination to remain distant and aloof from the humanity of which he knew he could no longer be a part, Mycroft admitted it had helped to form one or two strategic alliances, though sometimes he wondered if such was an precise description of the association.

The first and key of these was with the Holmes family or more accurately, with the great-grandfather of the current Holmes generation. It had been just prior to the outbreak of the Boer Wars when he had met Holmes Senior in the War Office in London. Though he'd heard quite a lot of the man through his connection with the Anglo-Afghan War of several years earlier, this was the first time Mycroft had occasion to meet Granville Holmes in person. A tall, dark-haired man of regal posture and with a distinctive military aversion to 'ordinary people', they had 'met' if such an epithet might be employed, during an argument via the Editorial Letters section of _The Times_ newspaper regarding the usefulness of Edison's new electrical generating stations. After much disputation in writing, the scientific debate was taken to a local London laboratory in Camden Town where, with great theatre, Mycroft had not only arranged for the entire building to be electrified, but also for it to be lit throughout with the inventor's famous light bulbs and powered by his new generators.

An odd sort of friendship had begun at that moment, odd, in that it did not end when Granville died, but was taken up by his son, Albert Sherringford Holmes. Bertie Holmes had been introduced to Mycroft at a debate early in the new century at the Royal Society in Carlton House Terrace, where Granville brought the tall, pale Englishman into the conversation simply as 'a friend'. Bertie was possessed of the same critical and scientific mind as his father and thus the cordial relationship had continued, with Mycroft several times being invited to Bertie's house to dine with his family. Avoiding the actual dinners by inventing a digestion-problem resulting from the war, though carefully not specifying which _particular_ war, Mycroft had nevertheless become a semi-regular presence at the Holmes' residence, interspersed by long intervals when he travelled abroad, enabling him to return to London almost as a stranger.

In 1938, Bertie was killed in a dreadful omnibus accident in Regent Street and it had been to Mycroft that the funeral and associated arrangements came; his organisation giving the bereaved widow complete freedom to care for her several girls who were almost all past school age. In order to more ably deal with the necessary forms and legal documentation, Mycroft at first tacitly and then legally assumed the name of _Holmes_ ; its use far less likely to cause raised eyebrows over his involvement with Bertie's widow. He never explained this to her and she never questioned his actions. Bertie's unexpectedly-arrived youngest child, a son called George and a mere infant when his father died, was supplied with appropriate tutors until he too began school. In the fullness of time, George went to Oxford, all costs managed by Mycroft under the guise of an insurance policy taken out by the dead man just before his demise.

Of all the Holmes brood, young George proved to be the most like his father and grandfather, eventually pursuing a career first as a scholar and then as a government scientist, earning himself a very high security rating with his involvement in the British Atomic Program. It was during his work with the Americans following the Second World War, that George met and married the mathematician Lillian Marie Jacobson, fifteen years his junior. Their only child, Sherlock, was born in 1975.

And it was in William Sherlock Scott Holmes that Mycroft finally found an intellectual equal and ... if such a thing might exist and if that thing were clothed in thorns ... a friend.

By the time young Sherlock was seven, he had already made Mycroft a _de facto_ big brother, possibly because the older man knew absolutely everything about _everything_ and the small, skinny boy absorbed knowledge and information by osmosis. Being unable to explain why the child might find him so fascinating, Mycroft, who had never knowingly sired children of his own, found himself equally absorbed by this latest Holmes scion. Neither George nor Lillian seemed to mind and, despite the fact that Mycroft was an old family friend in every sense of the word, they showed no indication of unease at the fact their young son hung on Mycroft's every word, which, as events turned out, was just as well.

Two weeks after Sherlock's ninth birthday, his parents were returning from a science symposium in Rome when the plane they were on collided with another on the Fiumicino runway. The ensuing explosion killed all on board the London-bound Boeing 727.

Once again, Mycroft was compelled to handle unlooked-for funerals, his normally stony composure at breaking-point when the small boy refused point-blank to allow him to leave.

"I must go, Sherlock; there are … things that have to be done."

"Then take me _with_ you," the too-thin child wept against Mycroft's waistcoat, bony fingers locked into the fabric of his jacket. It was impossible, of course. Loath though he was to do it, Mycroft agreed to the recommendation of sedatives in order to calm the child into sleep and rest. It was a decision he would regret for many years.

But then everything had been taken care of; a quiet funeral and an even quieter time trying to find some kind of normality. Documents had been signed and properties sold and legalities dealt with. All the usual, problematic questions answered.

Except, of course, the question of young Sherlock.

Unbeknownst to Mycroft, both Lillian and George, in addition to conscripting him as their Executor, had also named him as a potential Guardian to their son. It seemed there was nobody else in the immediate family resident in Britain, who was in any way capable or remotely interested in the boy, and Mycroft found himself in something of a quandary.

"They remarked to me a few months ago that you would be an excellent custodian for Sherlock," the solicitor in charge of the Holmes' estate and trust. "Of course, they could not possibly have known how prescient was their discussion."

"Unthinkable," Mycroft was at his most thoughtfully frigid. "It would be impossible for me to accommodate a child in my life. I work ... long hours, I travel; I have no idea or experience of child care, or ... anything child-related," he argued, on the back foot for once.

"And yet both George and Lillian Holmes felt you were the best person to care for their son ..." the solicitor had had this kind of conversation before. He knew people's weaknesses.

As did Mycroft, who turned and speared the man with a calculating look.

"I would not be good parent material," he said, finally.

"Even though two good parents disagreed with you, as, by the way, does their child," the solicitor lifted his eyebrows almost apologetically. A small whirlwind powered past him, pale white hands reaching up to hug the owner close against the smooth material of Mycroft's suit.

" _Mycroft!_ " Sherlock's face was pressed tight against the tall man's chest, right where his watch-chain, a Victorian affectation he'd never really lost, met the rest of the world.

The solicitor caught Mycroft's eye and smiled sadly, his shrug expressive.

Looking down to the mop of dark, curling hair and even knowing it was the most foolish thing he might do, Mycroft felt an inexplicable rush of responsibility and regard for this, the last of the Holmes line. The boy clung to him with every ounce of his frail strength and trembled with desperation.

Realising he could no more abandon the child than fly, Mycroft rested a hand briefly on the boy's head and closed his eyes, already aware he was about to make a terrible error of judgement.

"I will need assistance to cater for the child's needs," he began, combing his fingers through the thatch of curls. "A Nanny, or housekeeper or some such ..."

"I can make all necessary arrangements for Sherlock's care, if you wish, Mr Holmes," the solicitor was all deprecating smiles now that he had his way.

"I think not," having made his decision, Mycroft was determined to manage the new responsibility the best he might. "I shall handle all matters concerning Sherlock from now on," he looked down. "Do you want to come home with me tonight or would you prefer to stay here until I have things arranged?" he addressed the top of the boy's head.

"Go with you," the muffled pronouncement was clear enough.

"Then come," Mycroft held out his hand.


	2. in which we are introduced to others when help is needed.

 

Taking only a small bag containing his immediate needs; pyjamas, a toothbrush and a clean set of clothes for the morning, Sherlock hung onto Mycroft's hand as they walked to the Jaguar. As it was already heading into evening, the still-light sky caused the tall man no concern, and he was able to focus his attention on the boy trotting along beside him.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, realising he'd have to get someone to organise food-shopping for him. What on earth did small boys need to eat? It was too long ago for Mycroft to remember his own childhood but he vaguely recalled that regular eating was an integral part of it.

With a silent shake of his head, Sherlock waited as the car door was opened for him then scrambled into the back, scooting across to the far side and peering up out of the window, his face pressed almost to the glass itself.

Directing the driver to head for home, Mycroft realised he was facing his first hurdle in the care and maintenance of young Sherlock. The boy had to eat.

"What's your favourite food?" he asked, casually.

"What's yours?" Sherlock turned back from the window, an expression of mild interest on his face, which suddenly faded. "Daddy liked sausages," he mumbled.

And there was the second hurdle. Neither food nor emotional comfort were particular strengths of his and Mycroft sighed internally, already aware of how difficult this was going to be. However, he'd agreed to take the child on for at least the few years that were left of his childhood, and, by god, he'd do it properly.

"I don't eat very often," he said, after a pause. "I have a problem with my digestive system which prevents me from eating solid food."

"I don't eat very often either," Sherlock sat back in the deep seat, folding his hands across his stomach. "But that's because food's boring and I hate being bored."

 _Only interesting food was acceptable_ ... Mycroft made a mental note. "What diet would you define as both nourishing and tolerable?" he felt he might be getting somewhere.

"Let food be thy medicine, and medicine be thy food," Sherlock offered the quotation with all the gravity of an Oxford Don.

"And I'm sure Hippocrates would have been the first to commend your adherence to his precepts," Mycroft nodded agreeably. "But I'm equally certain even he made time to ingest sustenance on a regular basis, no matter how dull the process might have become."

Sherlock heaved a theatrical sigh, sliding himself across the width of the long car seat until his entire upper body was pressed hard up against Mycroft's side. Lifting the man's arm and placing it around his shoulders, Sherlock squirmed even closer, resting the side of his head again Mycroft's chest.

"May I see your watch, please?" his interest caught by the glint of chain.

"You may inspect it in great detail as soon as you have eaten dinner," Mycroft was not above bribery. "I even have a jeweller's _loupe_ you may borrow."

"Apples, Artichokes, Asparagus and Avocados," Sherlock sing-songed, "are some of my favourite things."

Mycroft sighed again. "Nor will a recitation of the culinary alphabet offer sufficient indication as to what should be done about your evening meal," he prodded the boy gently in the arm. "Tell me one meal you find satisfactory and I'll have it prepared for you," his fingers gliding, by sheer coincidence, over the silver chain of the Hunter.

After several seconds of mute contemplation, Sherlock gave in. "I quite like toast," he said. "And scrambled eggs, but not the runny way."

"There are different methods?" Mycroft was impressed at the child's knowledge; it was far more advanced than his own.

"Mummy said it was the way they scrambled them in America," Sherlock nestled a little closer to Mycroft's waistcoat. "With butter rather than milk."

"Then I shall arrange for you to have toast and some American scrambled eggs to eat this evening, after which, you may examine my watch in careful detail, though you must take care not to break it; it has been with me for a very long time."

A gift from Granville Holmes in fact, almost a hundred years before.

"And will you let me see the chain as well and can I open it up at the back, please?" Sherlock sounded very keen to establish the widest possible parameters for his investigation.

"Of course, and I'll even show you how to polish the case, if you wish," Mycroft leaned forward and picked up the conveniently-placed car phone he'd had installed only months prior. Car phones on the new System 4 network were still prohibitively expensive, but for him, their convenience outweighed the cost, no matter what it might be. The ability to phone back to base from anywhere within London had already proven to be of inestimable value and Mycroft had his eye on a small Finnish cable company called _Nokia_ ; their developments in the field were most promising.

"Good evening, Roberts," Mycroft tried to picture the expression that would shortly be shaping his Aide's face. "I will be having company for the foreseeable future. Please arrange to have the guest room next to the Master suite made up. I'll also need a variety of foodstuffs suitable for a nine-year old child, as well as someone to be at my house within the next thirty minutes who knows how to make toast and cook scrambled eggs," he paused, looking down once again at the unruly head of hair pressed against his side. "The American way, not the runny way," he added. " _Enroute_ as we speak. ETA fifteen minutes."

Replacing the phone, Mycroft permitted himself a private smile. His staff were nothing if not adaptable, but he wondered just how resourceful Roberts could be at such short notice. As the black Jaguar drew up in front of one of the rather grand-fronted Portland stone houses in Pall Mall, he wondered what Sherlock would make of his new home. Flanked now on either side by government offices, this house had been Mycroft's refuge and harbour in London since the street had been built in the seventeenth-century. A multi-storied dwelling, its grey limestone front blended in perfectly with the neo-classical office facades to either side. Were it not for a discreet front door, one might not even perceive the building was a separate dwelling.

He need not have been concerned about the practical nature of his employees. Roberts stepped out onto the pavement as the car slowed to a halt, opening the rear door and waiting, with some interest for both Mycroft and his guest to alight. Watching his employer walk to the front door, his right hand held tightly by a young boy, Jude Roberts allowed his eyebrows to lift slightly. This was something new.

In the entry-hall, Mycroft handed over his coat and umbrella, ushering Sherlock down the long passageway towards the kitchen. Strange sounds of habitation echoed from within and both man and boy were curious as to what might lie beyond the heavy door framed by two Corinthian columns. Pushing the door inwards, the first sign of human occupancy was deducible from the intense muttering emanating from behind the open door of the large refrigerator.

" _No_ milk, _no_ cheese, _no_ fresh veg ..." a woman's voice, acerbic and scornful as she rattled around inside the large appliance. "Makes you wonder why you'd even bother having a 'fridge..." the voice tailed off as she opened the lower freezer door, removing one of several bottles of clear spirit. " _Absolut Pinstripe Crystal Vodka_ ..." Kitta Penderic pulled out the unwieldy and icy-cold bottle to look more closely at the ornate glasswork, at which point Mycroft moved swiftly forward, relieving the older woman of her burden. Her rather _expensive_ burden.

Returning the liquor to its frosty bed and closing the freezer door, Mycroft stood back and assessed the late-middle-aged woman standing with one hand still resting on the side of the substantial, white appliance. Her greying hair was neatly coiled in a French pleat and her appearance was of well-groomed though not expensive tastes. A small pair of gold-rimmed spectacles hung on a fine gold chair around her neck; the woman looked like everyone's maiden aunt might be expected to look. He noted, with some amusement, that she was assessing him right back, her dark eyes slightly narrowed as she took in the costly suit and coat.

"You'd be Mr Holmes, then?" the woman clasped her hands beneath her somewhat ample bosom as she stared at the pair of them. "The one who wants a cook in a hurry?"

"I am Holmes," Mycroft smiled faintly. "I have no knowledge of the culinary arts and yet must fend for my young relative here who will be living with me for the foreseeable future."

"Which is a posh way of sayin' you need a cook, is it?"

Raising an eyebrow, Mycroft nodded briefly. The woman's tone irritated him, but if he wanted the boy fed tonight, then beggars could not be choosers. He would instigate a proper search for a suitable nanny-housekeeper first thing in the morning.

Casting her gaze across the too-thin child who was staring around the brightly-lit room with its shining fitments, Kitta felt her heart go out to the boy; pale, wafer-thin and looking for all the world as if he spent his days in a room with the curtains drawn. She could see something of a resemblance to the man standing beside him, if only in their dark hair and the pallor of their skin. Well, at least she could give the child a good feed tonight.

"And who might you be?" she dropped her blackbird eyes down to meet a pair of pale blue ones.

"My name's Sherlock Holmes and I'd like to have some scrambled eggs, please," the child's reedy voice belied his manner which was entirely too confident for one so young.

"Then someone's going to have to take me shopping, young man, for there's nothing in this fridge but a rich man's things," she treated Mycroft to a mild glare.

"I asked for provisions to be brought in for this evening ... _ah_ ," he turned at the sound of a polite cough behind him.

Jude Roberts stood with a bright yellow Selfridges carrier bag in each hand. They had clearly just been delivered.

"Here you go, aunty," he smiled, dropping the supplies on the nearest vacant benchtop. "As directed, sir. Bread and eggs for the young gentleman. I'll just nip upstairs and finish making up the guest room as you wished. Will there be anything else at the moment?"

"Thank you, no; I believe everything is under control for the time being. Shall we go into the drawing room, Sherlock?" Mycroft held the door.

"I can see this lady is your aunty," Sherlock turned suddenly and nodded at Roberts, standing in the doorway. "Both your little fingers are the same shape. It must run in your family."

Surprised, not only at the announcement of the observation, but also at fact the boy was so unexpectedly sharp-eyed, Kitta lifted her hand and smiled. The child was quite correct. Jude's little finger was slightly larger, but had the same outwards curve at the tip. And he was indeed her nephew.

"Then, Mr Sherlock Holmes, can you tell me if there's any eggs in them bags? I shall need some if I'm to make you your dinner," Kitta began unpacking the groceries.

"Can you make them without milk?" the boy sounded so hopeful, she felt her chest squeezed by sudden feeling.

"Lovey, you shall have them any way you please," she said, her voice gruff with unexpected emotion.

Mycroft caught the tone and paused, turning to observe the woman more closely.

Late fifties, she wore no ring nor had done so for some time, which made him wonder what she was doing so far from home. Her features were unremarkable, though her voice and accent brought back old memories ... very old memories. Of his own childhood, to be exact.

"I'm sorry, we've not been properly introduced," Mycroft stepped forward, his hand extended. "Mycroft Holmes and this is Sherlock," he smiled a little as he waited to hear the woman speak again.

"Kitta Penderic," she said promptly. "Though most call me Kit. Just popped in to help out my Jude, here," she said brightly.

"And you're from South Cornwall?" Mycroft's smile grew fractionally wider.

"You know Cornwall?" Kit was surprised.

"I spent a number of years there as a child," he looked reflective. "Zennor, mostly, though I was born at Isca in Devon."

"Well now, that's what I call a coincidence," Kit raised her eyebrows. "I'm from Madron, originally," she said. "Just up in London for a few days to settle some legal business, and here I am getting a call for help to make dinner for someone who don't know how to cook."

Mycroft had the grace to look apologetic. "I thank you for being our Good Samaritan this evening, and as I'm sure will Sherlock," he lifted his eyebrows. "Do you require any assistance?"

Shaking her head, Kitta turned to begin unpacking the shopping. "If I'm to make the boy a bite to eat, would you like me to make you something as well?" she asked, pulling things from the plastic bags. "It might not be cordon bleu, but I do know how to cook, though I say so myself."

"Very kind of you to offer, but no, thank you," Mycroft smiled. "I'm sure your nephew will show you the dining room and all the amenities; please don't hesitate to ask if you need anything," he added, ushering Sherlock back the way they'd come.

 _Well now; there was strange_. Apart from Holmes clearly never having been anywhere near a kitchen in his life other than to collect ice-cubes, it was also clear the man knew Cornwall, as he'd said, but he'd got his place names all wrong. She'd been a District Nurse for most of her life and had lived in various towns and villages all around Cornwall and Devon; she'd never heard of such a place as Isca. Not that she didn't know the word, which was common enough. _Isca_ was very old Cornish and meant _water_. Now why would a clever London-man make a mistake like that?

Shaking her head at the minor puzzle, Kit unearthed the necessities for a quick meal of eggs and bread. She wished she had more time and could make the lad a proper dinner to put some meat on those bones, poor little mite. Still, she could at least make sure he ate properly tonight. Rustling around the enormous echoing cavern of a kitchen, she found a selection of heavy skillets of all sizes, one of which which she put on the gas stove to heat through. Next, she laid out the ingredients; eggs, butter, cream, chives and, she smiled, Jude had gone and got a punnet of the tiny baby tomatoes he knew she loved. The bread was unsliced and she made swift work of making some Melba toast knowing the ultra-thin slices wouldn't overwhelm the lad whose appetite was probably a fickle thing for him to be so fragile-looking. Perhaps intestinal problems ran in the family.

Whisking the eggs until she was satisfied, she added the cream and poured the mixture into one of the small skillets, folding everything together with a wooden spoon.

In minutes, everything was done.

" _Jude_ ," she called. "The lad's dinner is about ready, do you want to serve it for him or shall I?"

"I'll carry everything, aunty," Jude Roberts appeared at the doorway of the kitchen, "but you might want to come along and see if there's anything else that's needed before I get you a taxi back to your hotel."

Placing everything on a large tray and covering the hot plate of eggs and toast and halved tiny tomatoes with a curved silver dome she'd also had gently warming in the oven, Kit added a large glass of milk.

"Lead on then," she waved her nephew forward, following behind as he wove a path down a passage and through a couple of rooms.

"Short cut," he said, reaching an elegant chamber that was clearly designed for formal dining. An enormous polished table stretched down the long room with sufficient seating for at least twenty people. Heavy-framed oil paintings girded the walls and the corners of the room hosted large, horse-like statues. Two ornate crystal chandeliers hung from the exquisitely carved ceiling. For a formal dinner, this room would no doubt be a magnificent success. For a small boy's supper, it was a disaster.

"I'm not having the laddie try and eat his food in here all alone," Kit was adamant. "You take that tray back to the kitchen while I go and bring him away."

"I don't think Mr Holmes would be too keen on his guest eating in the kitchen, aunty," Jude rubbed his nose.

"As if I give a hoot what that man thinks," Kit snorted. "It's the little chap I'm concerned about. Off you go," she shooed him back the way they'd come.

Finding the Holmes pair wasn't hard; she simply had to follow the piano music emerging from the other side of the house.

Knocking briskly on the tall Georgian door, Kitta didn't wait to be invited in but announced that dinner was ready for young Mr Holmes, and that the kitchen would be a more comfortable place for him to eat tonight.

Startled from his seat at the large and elegant piano, Kit wasn't sure whether the expression on the man's face was one of relief or irritation; not that it mattered. She held out her hand and beckoned the boy. "Come with me now and have your dinner while it's still hot," she said, the District Nurse tone in her voice brooking no debate.

Without a word, Sherlock slid off the sofa and held her hand all the way back to the kitchen where Jude had already laid a place setting at the old refectory table.

"And _voici_ ," Kitta removed the silver dome with a touch of flair, revealing the steaming dinner he'd wanted, topped with snipped chives. Handing him a fork and pushing the glass of milk closer to his hand, she smiled at the suddenly hungry look on the boy's face. _Good_.

Staring at the food and prodding the eggs carefully with the fork, Sherlock lifted his face to her and his unexpected smile was a delight. Smiling in return, Kit moved off towards the sink where she turned on the hot water and hunted under the sink for the dishwashing liquid. There was none. Nor were there dishcloths or pan-scrubbers or any of the other usual paraphernalia that lurked in kitchen cupboards.

 _Didn't Holmes ever have dishes to wash?_ Giving up, Kit pulled open the new-looking and terribly expensive Bosch dishwasher finding only a few clean crystal-cut tumblers and several cups and saucers inside. The man might not be an eater but he had some appetites, it seemed, though whoever decided to put cut crystal in a dishwasher needed their head seeing-to. Kit recalled the bottles of pricy vodka in the freezer; clearly, Holmes liked a drink or three, and by the look of the cups in the dishwasher, it seemed he liked tea as well, so perhaps he wasn't entirely to the bad. Perhaps she could offer him coffee or tea to accompany his piano-playing. Kit had the strangest notion that the man might not be quite sure how to deal with a child – this place certainly didn't seem set up for a young person.

The clinking of fork on china stopped and Kit turned to see if there was a problem, only to find the boy staring miserably at his half-empty plate.

"What is it, sweetheart?" Kitta was at his side in an instant, crouching down beside his chair. "Does it taste funny? Did I not cook it properly for you?"

With a mute shake of his head, Sherlock tried hard to stop the tears welling up in his eyes. "That was how Mummy used to make it," he whispered, his voice catching on the last words.

Still not sure what might have happened to his parents that brought the boy to this place, it was clear that it had been a recent and traumatic event for the child and Kit's heart once again brimmed-over with feeling.

"Oh, my dear ..." it was all she needed to say as the tears fell and the boy flung his arms around her neck, sobbing heedlessly against her shoulder. Wrapping herself around him, Kitta held tight, waiting while the storm ran itself out. It was often better to let these upsets take their natural course than to try and hold them in. As the boy wept in her arms, Kit noticed a shadow of movement at the kitchen doorway.

Mycroft Holmes stood there looking oddly distressed and helpless and Kit felt her concern extend to him. Obviously, he had no experience at looking after children just as it was equally clear the child was suffering the effects of some horrible family situation. In some ways, she almost felt sorrier for the adult, grown man though he was. And it was even more obvious that the only person in this room with any idea of what needed to be done was her.

"I think Mr Sherlock needs to go to bed for the moment," Kit still had her arms around the boy. "Do you have any hot water bottles?"

"There are several in the old butler's pantry," Mycroft nodded at a closed door at the far end of the room.

"Right then," Kitta felt Sherlock's trembling lessen. "If you can carry the young man upstairs, I'll get the ..."

"I can do that, aunty," Jude appeared. "How many do you want?"

"Three for now," Kit smiled. "I can always come and get some more later if they're needed."

"You intend to stay?" Mycroft reached very gently for the child still leaning against her, picking the boy up in such a way that told Kit either Sherlock was a lot lighter than he looked, or that Mycroft's strength belied his physique.

"I'd like to be sure the laddie doesn't take badly through the night," she stood, watching the small figure slumped, almost boneless and unmoving in Mycroft's arms. "If you don't mind," she added. "I was a District Nurse for a long time and I've seen how this kind of reaction to shock can affect children," she shrugged. "I'd rather lose a night's sleep here than at my hotel, wondering how the boy was faring."

"You think it's shock?" Mycroft was already walking down the passageway before turning into a wider area that led to the foot of a very sweeping staircase.

"Of course it's shock," Kit followed close behind as they ascended the stairs. "I have no idea what's happened, but it's put the child in a bad way," she said. "Have you seen him cry before this? Has he had any sort of emotional breakdown?" she turned at the top of the stairs, following the tall man down a well-carpeted corridor. There was a central door at the far end, and two other doors facing. Mycroft walked through the opened door on the right.

Inside was a large, square room with a large square bed right in the middle of it. The room smelled a little musty as if it hadn't been aired properly or had not been used for a long time. Kit pulled down the top sheet and blankets and coverlet, feeling inside the bed to ensure it wasn't damp. It was only cold.

"Don't put him in there just yet," she said. "If you don't mind holding him for a little while longer, I'd like to have the bed warmed a bit first," Kit turned on the bedside lamp, tilting the shade to one side to leave the bed itself in semi-darkness.

Jude arrived then, arms full of heavy hot water bottles.

Taking two of them and laying them end-to-end lengthwise, Kit wrapped them tightly in a soft throw from the end of the bed, making a short bundle which she placed in the bed, before adding the third bottle lower down. Turning the covers back, she returned her attention to Sherlock who lay in Mycroft's arms, eyes closed.

"I think he's fallen asleep," Mycroft's voice was very low. "He's been very brave these last few weeks."

 _Ah_. It told Kitta everything she needed to know. No wonder the child was in such a state. A good night's rest might not change a lot, but it couldn't hurt. Pulling the covers back once more, Kit moved the bundle to one side.

"Lay him here," she indicated, "in the warm. We'll soon have him properly asleep."

Mycroft placed Sherlock very precisely in the warmed patch of bed. Kit removed the child's shoes, trousers and and his jumper so that he slept in his t-shirt and pants, but at least he'd be comfortable, and with the hot water bottles at his side, there'd be something warm to cuddle if he needed it. She left the third bottle near, but not against, his feet; she wanted the child free from chills, but not cooked.

"I'll stay with him tonight, if that's alright with you, Mr Holmes," Kitta lifted a big, padded armchair across to the side of the bed. "If he wakes in the night, and he probably will, then I don't think he should be alone, and what with me being a nurse and all that ..." her voice tailed off. Kit realised she was a complete stranger here and Holmes would be entirely within his rights to have her leave ... but she didn't think he would want that.

"Are you quite sure?" he spoke softly so as not to disturb Sherlock, but Kit smiled and answered in a normal tone.

"No need to whisper," she said. "He'll be totally out of things for a while. Poor little chap's totally exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and he doesn't have much in reserve in either of those at his age," she rubbed her forehead. "And I'm quite sure about staying with the boy for the night as long as you're agreeable," she added. "I've gone without sleep for so many years that I often don't sleep the full night anymore even in my own house," she smiled faintly. "Though I wouldn't say no to a nice cup of tea and perhaps a drop of something stronger wouldn't hurt either."

Mycroft observed the woman carefully. There was not the slighted suggestion she was being anything but transparently open and honest. That she was a touch on the demanding side had annoyed him earlier, but now he realised that the cause was concern for Sherlock, and she made no bones about it. Kitta Penderick, he realised, was exactly what Sherlock needed tonight; someone who knew how to take care of the child in the ways that he could not. At least, not yet.

"I'll go and arrange both," he said, straightening to his full height and relaxing a fraction. "I hope you won't mind if I join you; I don't sleep much these days either and I'd rather be here if Sherlock wakes up in case he asks for something specific," he paused. "Do you want me to have your nephew stay as well? He will, if I ask, I'm sure."

"Jude's got his own family to go to, Mr Holmes," Kit shook her head. "There's nothing he can do for me or young Sherlock here for the rest of the night, so please don't ask him to stay on my account."

Nodding again, Mycroft left the room, his shoes making no sound on the thickly carpeted floor.

There was a small cabinet of books in the corner by the door and Kit went to investigate; nothing like a good read when you had to sit up all night with a patient. The books were old, she could see that even before she got close, but she hadn't realised quite _how_ old until she picked a couple of them up to read the titles. Settling the reading glasses onto her nose, she saw that both books in her hand were histories. Checking the cabinet itself, she realised that all the books were historical accounts of one sort or another, each one beautifully bound in hand-crafted leather, with hand-made papers and all beautifully illustrated.

Someone liked their books.

Selecting one which seemed to be a history of London in the late nineteenth-century, Kit returned to her chair after casting an observant eye over the sleeping boy. He hadn't moved an inch from where Mycroft had laid him. Kit shook her head; the child must be truly exhausted.

About to settle down to a good read, the faint rattle of crockery made her look up as the man himself walked in carrying a tray laden with tea things, a bottle of scotch and two crystal glasses.

"Tea?" Mycroft lowered the tray onto the bedside table before bringing over a second chair.

"Black for me, please, no sugar," Kit smiled as she accepted the proffered cup.

"And this?" Mycroft lifted the bottle to show her the label, a Glenmorangie that was only slightly younger than she was. She smiled again. If nothing else, the man knew his spirits.

"Will Sherlock wake up tonight?" Mycroft asked, staring at the sleeping child.

"Probably around three or four; it seems to be the usual time for children of his age," Kit nodded slowly. "He'll most likely be thirsty and will want to go to the bathroom, but then he'll pop off right back to sleep and stay that way until late in the morning," she added, years of experience picking out the most probable series of events.

"How do you know?" Mycroft leaned forward, arms resting on his thighs as he turned his gaze from the boy in the bed to the woman in the chair. "How can you be so sure?"

"How do you know what makes a good scotch?" Kit asked, sipping from her glass in happy contemplation.

A line of smile lifting the corners of his mouth, Mycroft sat back in the deeply upholstered chair, the angle of light leaving his face oddly shadowed. "So what shall we talk about to while away the wee hours?" he felt himself relaxing for the first time that evening, his tone was light.

"Well, I don't know about you," Kit stared at him over her cup of tea, an expression of devilment in her eyes. "But I'd very much like to hear about Isca."


	3. in which there are stories of history and books.

 

"Isca?" Mycroft raised the glass to his mouth, wondering why the woman had brought that particular subject up ... of course. He'd mentioned it earlier as his birthplace, which it was. "Nice little place," he nodded as memory handed him vague images. "On the Exe."

Kit considered her scotch as thoughtfully as she considered her own memories which were decidedly more recent. "There's no place on the River Exe called _Isca_ ," she said slowly. "I've been up and down the banks of that river more times than I've had hot dinners and I can tell you now, Mr Mycroft Holmes, there b'aint no such place."

"It was a long time ago," Mycroft's face was perfectly straight as a hint of Cornwall entered the conversation. "Things change."

"You're younger n'me," Kitta crossed her legs. "And things don't change that fast as I wouldn't know about them," she added. "Want to try again?" She reached for her teacup.

Watching Kit's face over the curve of the Royal Doulton, Mycroft was tempted to smile. Naturally, she imagined him younger than she was; he hadn't changed outwardly for almost two millennia. To the world at large, he would be in his forties forever.

"I distinctly remember the village church being adjacent to the river," he said. "And I'm sure it was a place called Isca," there was the suggestion of a shrug. "Perhaps my memory is doing me a disservice."

"Perhaps," Kitta looked carefully at the man sitting opposite, wondering who he was and what had brought him here, to this day, with the boy.

A handsome man to many, no doubt, though his general expression was a little too severe for her liking. The lines of his face seemed inflexible, like marble under the skin and even when he smiled, it was a guarded thing, as if he'd learned to be sparing with his affections. That he was affluent was self-evident. Not only did he have all the trappings of significant wealth, but his manner and attitude to people and the things around him suggested he was old money. Not that he was at all condescending, which was odd when she thought about it. Such a man as Holmes had all the makings of arrogance and yet he had been nothing but polite with her and downright careful with the boy. Kitta recalled the look on his face when he'd watched Sherlock weeping in the kitchen; there had been no sign of distain or contempt for the child's distress. Nor had he taken her to task for assuming control over Sherlock's eating arrangements, which by rights, he could have done. That he had exquisite taste was equally obvious, though no matter how beautiful this house was, it seemed more a museum than a home; there was something strangely unlived and chilly about the place. Perhaps he lived elsewhere and only used this incredible place on the rare occasion he had guests? Maybe he had a smaller apartment somewhere and this house was a family relic? It was possible.

Though Jude would surely have mentioned something when he'd phoned her at the hotel in Piccadilly, not five minutes away, for help.

"It's my boss," he'd said, as if that explained everything. "He's just rung to say he's bringing a young child home and needed someone to make scrambled eggs; can you help me out, Aunt Kit? I'll never find anyone else at such short notice."

She could hardly say no; Jude and his wife had been so kind and helpful to her during this difficult time with the lawyers and everything, even demanding that she stay with them instead of an hotel, but their flat was small and Kit had no intention of imposing herself on anyone. So she had agreed and caught a taxi straight over, hanging up her coat just as she'd heard the big front door open and close.

And now she sipped her tea and thought about the strange paradox that was Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft cradled his Glenmorangie and observed the woman evaluating him so meticulously from the opposite chair. It was an unexpected sensation to have someone, a complete stranger at that, sit in one of his guest rooms and deduce him so manifestly. It made him feel ... _interested_. He wondered what thoughts were flying through her head and to what conclusions they were leading. Mycroft smiled into his tumbler. No matter how outlandish she might consider him; her most extreme assumptions would still be a long way from reality. He had no idea what imp provoked the words but they were uttered without him realising he'd spoken.

"Or perhaps I'm hundreds of years old and can remember the old country as it was before the maps were drawn," he smiled artfully, brushing the words away even before they'd had time to settle.

Kitta smiled back. "And maybe you are, at that, Mr Holmes. Which would make me about as old as the Magna Carta."

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. He remembered the signing of the Great Charter at Runnymede, in a field of all places, about twenty miles east of London. It had seemed such a trek back then to reach the spot, whereas now it was but a hop and a skip across the road from Heathrow. Yet even today, Mycroft could still remember the stunning and utter treachery of John, King of England; such complete bastardry had been quite enlightening. The barons were most put out when John began turfing them all into his dungeons despite signing a charter that said he wouldn't.

"Then as that is patently not the case, perhaps you might care to tell me about your exciting career as a district nurse?" Mycroft settled back into the comfortable chair. The prospect of a night of stories and good scotch not displeasing in the least.

"You seriously want to hear about my work as a nurse?" Kit grinned suddenly; some of the anecdotes she could tell were not for delicate ears.

"I'm always serious," Mycroft stretched over for the bottle to refresh their glasses. "I'd really like to know about the life you've had; I get so few opportunities to talk with normal people, these days, and please, do call me Mycroft."

"Not sure I'd classify myself so much as _normal_ ," Kit smiled, self-conscious as she brought the glass back and rested it on her chest. "A nurse's life is full of the weird and wonderful ... some of the things I've seen, you would not believe."

"I think you'd be surprised what I might believe," he smiled back, a less constrained expression now that he was relaxing.

Kitta shook her head as she stared down into her drink; some of the things that she'd seen ...

"There was this one time when I was out on my little moped that the service gave those of us far out in the country, and I recall riding past one of the farms in my area," her eyes were dreamy with the distance of time. "I heard this terrible shout for help and I looks around, but can't see anything untoward, so I calls out to see if there really was someone or if it was my imagination," she said. "You start to imagine all sorts of things out there on the moors sometimes, with the wind blowing around the tors," she paused, remembering.

"There was another shout for help, and I looked to a field off to my left and there, up in a big old sycamore was the farmer, as tree'd as if he were cat being chased by a pack of dogs," Kit grinned at the memory, as fresh as yesterday.

"So I goes over to the big stone wall by the road and shouts to him, asking why he was up a tree, and he says it was because of the bull. Apparently, his bull had got loose in the fields with the cows and had chased him up the tree. So I looked around for the bull, but the only other thing in the whole field as I could see apart from the tree and the farmer, was an humongous great big cow, with huge, pendulous udders and long droopy ears," Kit smiled again. "She surely was an old'n was that cow."

"And what happened?" Mycroft was entranced. He couldn't recall the last time he'd had such an intimate conversation with someone for no other reason than they were in the same room at the same time. It made him quite giddy.

Kit sipped her scotch and licked her lips, a smile forming.

"Well, since I couldn't see anything but the cow, I goes to the gate, opens the thing and walks into the field, thinking that I might be able to see where the bull was, you see," she said. "But there was still nothing in sight but that great big old cow, so I call to the farmer to stop being such a great sissy, and to climb down and come on out before it got dark," the smile on her face grew wider.

"But then the cow stepped to one side and right behind her, I see the farmer's bull," she laughed. "Scared me half to death at first, until I realised what I had to do."

"And what was that?" if he had needed breath, Mycroft would have held it in anticipation.

"Quick as a flash, I walks up to the cow and takes her by the ear," Kit lifted her hand in demonstration. "I walks the cow away and the bull follows behind as meek as any lamb," she said, grinning. "I take them far enough away from the tree so that the farmer can jump down and make it to the gate without having to worry about the bull going after him, and when I was sure he was safe, I gave her a few handfuls of grass so that she'd stay put for a minute, and then I walked back to the gate myself."

"But what about the bull?" Mycroft narrowed his eyes and frowned. "How could you be so sure that he would stay with the cow and not chase after you? You took a great risk."

Kitta laughed. "Once I'd worked out what the situation was, I knew there was no risk involved," she said, smiling into her glass.

Mycroft was unconvinced. "How so?"

"Don't take an expert to know when a child wants to be with its mother," she laughed again. "The bull was no danger to anyone once he'd found his Dam."

 _Ah_. Relaxing even more into his chair, Mycroft lifted his eyebrows and nodded slowly. "To your ongoing good health," he said, toasting her with his glass. "I can't imagine others would have been quite so observant."

"It's just common-sense, really," Kit cast her gaze across to the bed as the child turned restlessly. She waited for a few moments in case he was about to waken, but settled back in her chair when Sherlock remained still. "All part of what being a nurse in the country means, or used to mean," it was Kit's turn to frown. "But now it's all modern technology and when I left, there was even talk about getting one of them computer things in at the main office," she sighed. "Makes me feel old-fashioned and superannuated, to be truthful. There was also talk of letting everyone over fifty retire and move the district nurses' office into one of the local hospitals," she added. "I knew it was time to go when the government spent more time worrying about logistics than it did about people."

"And how long were you actually a district nurse?" Mycroft was curious; what else had this woman done?

"Got my initial nursing qualifications soon after the last war, which makes me prehistoric in the eyes of the young ones graduating today," Kit recalled the time. "I was still at school during the war itself, but I left as soon as I got my matriculation when I was sixteen, which would have been in ..." she closed her eyes, counting. "1951, or thereabouts. I had ambition, but there wasn't much else for girls to do in those days unless they got married, and I wasn't terribly impressed by all that, to tell the truth."

"You never married?" Mycroft added a little more to their glasses.

"Marriage weren't for me," Kitta shook her head decisively. "I'd rather travel and find out about the world than be stuck at home with babies and some great clod of a man wanting his dinner all the time," she made a semi-sour face, then smiled. "But I've had some good times, I can tell you. There's not much a country nurse don't know about," she added, suggestively.

"This _is_ 1985," Mycroft looked at her critically. "You're still relatively young, you could go back to school and take a degree course if you wanted."

Kitta exhaled heavily, puffing out her cheeks as she considered the idea. "I've never really had much chance to go to school," she said. "Though I've always had a great love of books," she added, turning her head to nod at the cabinet of books in the corner. "I see you're something of a bibliophile yourself."

"I shall have to show you my library," Mycroft sounded a little smug. "I've endowed several of the major universities with collections over the years, but I confess I've kept the really good ones all for myself."

"You've got a library here?" Kit looked pleased when Mycroft nodded briefly. "Having enough space to devote an entire room to nothing but books has always been a dream of mine," she sighed. "But I've always either been on the move or not had the wherewithal, and then when I did, it was the call of foreign places that beckoned," she shrugged. "I've travelled a lot, so that's something. Can't have it all ways, I suppose."

"And what brings you up to London this week?" Mycroft poured himself some more tea. "I understand you came here this evening as a favour for your nephew."

Kitta nodded. "The place I'm living in just outside Plymouth is one of several old grace-and-favour cottages run by a big charitable organisation based up here in London. They're not supposed to charge rent for the houses, but then the cottages are only supposed to go to those of us who've retired after working our whole lives in the medical service. Since I'm not yet of retirement age, I came to an arrangement with the Nursing Trust where I could be a paying tenant until I turned sixty and got my official pension," Kit stopped, frowning.

"But what?" Mycroft waited; he had a feeling he knew what was coming.

"But now they've gone and changed their minds," Kit frowned even more, her fingers tightening around the empty glass. "They sent me a letter a few weeks ago telling me that our agreement was null and void, and that I'd have to vacate immediately."

"So you sought legal advice?" Mycroft nodded to himself. "It would be the only way to fight such a battle."

"Indeed I did," Kit's eyes hardened with anger. "I even came all the way up here to meet with Chairman of the Trust today ... but ..." she looked down, frowning and silent.

"But they said there was no legal way you could remain either as an interim or official tenant and that you'd have to leave," Mycroft made a face and finished the rest of his scotch in a single swallow. "That seems unnecessarily draconian."

"Oh well, I gave it a try," Kit sounded resigned. "I had just enough money put aside to pay the rent and live on for the next few years until my pension came through, but now it looks like I'll have to go back to work and get a little bedsit somewhere," she wrinkled her nose as she polished off the last of the alcohol in her glass. "No room for my books there, I think."

Sitting silently as he rolled the empty crystal between his long fingers, Mycroft felt the edge of an idea creep into his thoughts. It was neither logical nor even particularly well thought through, both attributes he would normally consider mandatory in everything he usually did.

"Anyway," she said, smiling. "It's your turn for a story."

Story? He had no stories to tell anyone, let alone a strange woman whom he hardly knew ... although that was no longer strictly true, was it? He now knew a great deal about Kitta Penderic; the solidity of her character, some of her numerable strengths and possible weaknesses. Even details of her current financial situation and future outlook were now slid into a mental dossier already marked with her name.

"I'm not good at stories," his voice was soft. "I don't have the knack for them."

"Then don't tell me a story, just give me an account of something interesting from your past," Kit moved a cushion and made herself more comfortable.

 _Something interesting from his past?_ So many things ... _so much past_ ...

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly as names and faces blazed through his thoughts; Queens and Emperors; Heads of State; religious leaders and individuals of such great national and international importance that their loss had brought down wars to enflame the world.

 _Perhaps this_...

"I once knew a man called William, who wrote stories for a living," he began cautiously, reaching over for the Glenmorangie and offering it up to see if she wanted another measure. Without a word, Kit held out her glass. It wasn't every day she got to enjoy such magnificent whisky.

"A novelist?" she asked, surprised that someone like Mycroft Holmes might seek acquaintance with a fiction-writer. It didn't seem to fit his style at all.

"He wrote all manner of things," Mycroft sipped his scotch. "But I only got to meet him at night, and it was always in the same place; a tavern ... a pub, where he'd always be sitting in his usual chair in the corner with his ... notebook and pens."

"And how did you come to know such a man?" Kit was more than curious, not only about the details, but why Mycroft might be going to meet someone in the same pub every night. It must have been when he was younger; perhaps when he was a student. "Was this while you were at university?"

 _I have never attended university as a student_.

"No, this was when I was older. I had been asked to keep an eye on the man because the authorities had been tipped off that he was writing seditious pamphlets. They asked me to get to know him in order that I could assess his writings to see if they were indeed treasonous."

Kitta felt her eyes widen. Is this what Holmes did for a living?

"Are you a spy, Mycroft?" she asked, quietly, her eyes never leaving his. "Because if you are, you should tell me now so I don't go asking any more silly questions."

Mycroft laughed, stifling the sound suddenly as he looked around at the still-sleeping child. Sherlock seemed dead to the world.

"I'm not a spy," he smiled, shaking his head. _Not anymore_. "But I've worked for the British Government for a long time _you have no idea how long_ and held a number of positions where both intelligence _and_ counter-intelligence has played a major role in what I do."

"That's exactly what I'd expect a spy to say," Kit sipped her drink and looked arch and disbelieving. "So what happened to this writer chappie that you weren't spying on?"

"I got to know the man reasonably well and he sometimes asked me to read his poems and even some of the plays he'd been writing. They were quite good plays, but he was always stuck for new characters, which is why he used to come to the pub every night."

"To drink?" Kit looked puzzled. "Did he need to drink to write properly?" she knew that a lot of writers were also heavy drinkers. Creativity, it seemed, was a hard-won quality.

"Not to drink, although he certainly did that, no," Mycroft shook his head, recalling the many nights he'd been witness to the man's scribbling in the Mermaid Tavern. "He used to watch the people coming and going and populated his stories and plays with their mannerisms and accents," he smiled at the memory. "For a fiction-writer, he was a damn good psychoanalyst."

"And was he writing sedition?" Kit wondered why someone like Mycroft would need to keep tabs on a writer, and why only at night?

"In some ways, he was," Mycroft raised his eyebrows introspectively. "He often wrote about assassinating royalty. It was one of his favourite themes, in fact."

"So what happened to him?" Kitta wanted to know. "Was he arrested or anything?"

"He was brought in for official questioning at least once that I know of," Mycroft nodded to himself. "But it was clear that the man was far more interested in writing about murdering royals than actually doing it, so, very wisely, the government let him get on with his plays in relative peace."

"Were the plays any good?" Kit savoured the scotch; it was wonderful; she couldn't bear to think what it must have cost.

"They occasionally turn up in school curricula, I believe," Mycroft was completely deadpan. "Hopefully, they'll inspire another generation."

"And the man himself?" Kit wondered where he might be now. The way Mycroft spoke of their meetings, it couldn't have been too long ago. "Where is he now?"

Eyeing her over the rim of his glass, Mycroft drew in a long, deliberate breath as he held her gaze. "Dead," he said, flatly. "Died rather mysteriously, in fact," he added, innocently. "He was only fifty-two."

"And you're sitting there expecting me to believe you're not a spy, for _shame_ , Mr Holmes," Kitta sat back in her chair, assessing the man in a new light. If his work really did involve the Secret Service, then it was no wonder he kept himself to himself and had no family to speak of. But then, if so, why would he be looking after the boy?

"Tell me about Sherlock, please," she said. "He's obviously a very special person in his own right and even more special to you."

"He is," Mycroft looked down into his drink. "The only child of cousins," he said. "Both died tragically in the Rome airport collision you probably heard about," he swallowed hard. "Sherlock's parents were insistent I become his Guardian, but I've never looked after anyone else in my life, certainly not a child, and I'm afraid I'm a bit at a loss about the whole thing. Tonight was the first time he came home with me," he sighed, contemplating the depth of his problems in the last finger of scotch. "I didn't even know how to make him scrambled eggs."

Kitta felt the same wave of feeling wash over her that she'd experienced down in the kitchen when she'd seen him watch the boy weep in her arms. She'd felt sorry for him then, but now she bit her lip in genuine understanding. Not that he didn't mean well, and not that he couldn't afford the best, he simply didn't have the requisite knowledge and experience. What he needed was ... someone like _her_.

She laughed, almost to herself. Strange how these things happened. What _she_ needed was a job that involved looking after someone like him and the boy.

Mycroft frowned. "The situation amuses you?"

Shaking her head and smiling wearily, Kit leaned forward and patted the back of his hand. "Not laughing at you, my dear, nor at the difficult situation you're both in," she said. "Just at the strange coincidences that life throws our way sometimes," she smiled ruefully. "You need someone to come and help you look after the boy's needs and I need a job that can use my out-of-date skills," she sighed, placing her glass back on the tray. "Ah well, such is life. I'd best be getting a glass of water; he'll be waking up soon, you'll see."

Watching the woman walk to the door, the notion that had sidled earlier into Mycroft's head began something of an Irish jig, stamping its boots and jumping up and down. He frowned again. _No_ , it was an impossible idea. Chewing his lower lip, he sat in deep thought, even as Sherlock stirred awake.

"How are you feeling?" Mycroft kept his voice low so as not to alarm the sleepy child. Waking up in a strange room was likely to feel odd, at best.

"Thirsty," Sherlock pushed himself into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, his dark curls askew.

"Kit's gone to get you a drink," Mycroft found himself straightening the wrinkled covers of the bed. "Do you want anything else?"

"Need the bathroom," the boy was already crawling out of bed. "Where is it?"

"You have your own bathroom through there, Sherlock," Mycroft pointed to one of the two doors on the far side of the room. "Just through there."

Wobbling across to the left-hand door Sherlock had just closed it behind him when Kitta returned.

"Is he alright?" she asked, seeing the empty bed. "No more tears?"

"He's still half-asleep," Mycroft shook his head. "But if you were ever to consider a future as a clairvoyant ..."

Kit grinned. "It's only experience, is all. There's nothing magical about it."

"Would you mind staying and organising Sherlock's breakfast?" Mycroft looked awkward. "I can see I'll have to take a crash-course in child-rearing. I'll make sure you're suitably recompensed for your time, naturally," he watched her expression carefully. If he had judged it correctly, then Kitta Penderic would react ...

"Now, let's not spoil a pleasant evening with talk of money for a mite of help," Kit shook her head. "T'weren't nothing I did really, 'cept make the boy some food and to know what he needed most was sleep," she looked slightly reproachful. "Besides, I've been doing this as a favour for my Jude, and there's no payment needed or wanted with favours."

... exactly like that. Mycroft nodded, inwardly vindicated. The idea in his head jumped up and down animatedly.

Sherlock returned, his eyelids drooping.

"Come on then, you sleepy thing," Kit pulled the bedcovers back down as he crawled in. "Here's a sip of water ... don't gulp it, now."

Taking several swallows, Sherlock handed the glass back and snuggled down into the soft bedding, yawning as his eyes closed and he was almost immediately still.

Standing, Mycroft moved away from the bed. "Will he awaken again tonight?"

Kitta pursed her lips. "Not likely, unless there's a really loud noise, or something else happens to rouse him," she said. "He'll most probably be out cold until well into the morning," she paused. "And even if he did waken, the light's on and he knows where the bathroom is and there's water here if he's thirsty again," she sounded unworried. "I'll leave the light like this and he'll be right as ninepence."

"In that case, would you mind coming downstairs? I have something of an idea and I'd appreciate your opinion on its viability," Mycroft hovered uncertainly by the door.

Feeling a stir of envy at the man's beautiful English, Kit resolved once again that she would have her own library one day, filled with lovely books, each one of which would be filled with beautiful words even if she had to do private nursing to pay for the books. She would. She _would_.

"Like some more tea?" Kit brought the tray down with her, the wide steps of the grand staircase easily navigable even with a big tray in her hands.

Turning at the foot of the stairs. Mycroft looked irritated with himself. "Please," he said, reaching for the tray. "You shouldn't be carrying this."

"Not anywhere near in my dotage yet, Mr Mycroft," Kit smiled as they walked back towards the kitchen. Putting down the tray and filling the kettle for a fresh brew, she turned.

"Would you like an early breakfast?" she asked him. "You didn't have no dinner."

Mycroft thought. He had to be very careful how much information he gave away, and _yet_ ... if his idea was to be successful he couldn't hide the truth completely. He decided on something half-way between what was fact and what was believable.

"I should tell you now that I don't eat, I _cannot_ eat solid food, Miss Penderic," Mycroft allowed his face to settle into pragmatic lines. "Following a ... violent attack many years ago, I am no longer able to digest food as such, although I can still tolerate certain liquids and the occasional item which seems not to stress my system." He deliberately avoided any particular details knowing Kit's imagination and medical knowledge would fill in the gaps. Nor was she the insensitive type to press indelicately for specifics … at least, not _yet_.

"Then how on earth do you manage to live?" Kitta looked vaguely dismayed, her eyes searching his face as the professional nurse in her came to the fore. "If you can't eat, what do you do to keep your strength up?"

"I have semi-regular blood transfusions and I take supplemental nutrients," he shrugged. "Thus while I might not exactly thrive on such a diet, I am at least able to survive," he added, his expression morphing into something less confident. "Though now I have Sherlock as my responsibility ..." his mouth tightened and shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure if taking him on was in any way helpful to that young man."

"Nonsense," Kitta bustled about, making tea. "I can see how much the boy means to you; it's just a question now of organisation and working through the details," she hunted for the tea-caddy. "Nothing to it."

It was the final thing Mycroft needed to hear. If she could handle the reality of his abnormal lifestyle, the woman could handle anything. Watching Kit Penderic making the enormous kitchen her own, the idea in his head folded its arms and began whistling.

"In that case," he spoke deliberately. "I have a proposal to make; you might wish to take a seat while you hear me out," Mycroft gestured to a chair at the big kitchen table.

Smiling at him over her shoulder, Kit carried on making the tea. "I doubt there's anything you could say that I'd need to sit down for," she smiled again as she rinsed the pot with boiling water. "You want me to come back and make the lad his dinner tomorrow? I can do that easily before I goes home."

Wedging both hands in his pockets, Mycroft contemplated his shoes and took a deep breath. Looking back up, he focused his entire attention on the woman. The slightest body movement might tell him a hundred times more than anything she said.

"Actually," he began. "I was going to suggest that you stay for somewhat longer than that," he paused. "I'd like you to consider leaving Plymouth and come live here with Sherlock and I, as his nanny and my general housekeeper. You will have your own apartment in this house and I would be more than happy to have a contract of employment drawn up to reflect whatever you felt was appropriate compensation, given the unusual nature of the job," he paused. "You have all the skills and more that Sherlock and I are going to need, while I can offer you a comfortable place to live while you help me with the responsibility of bringing up a nine-year-old boy," he paused, meeting her eyes. "It won't be terribly arduous work physically, but I have no doubt the task will be an emotional rollercoaster and I realise I can't do it alone."

Kitta felt her world turn over. It was a bit much to take in. "But you have no idea who I am or what kind of person I am," she almost stuttered. "You can't go around making people such offers when you've just met them a few hours before. It ain't right."

A cool smile softened the stern lines of his face. There was one more thing he had to say to her. He played his ace.

"Let me show you my library."


	4. in which more of Mycroft's life is revealed and Kit makes a decision.

 

Kitta's thoughts whirled in her head. Was Mycroft acting on her earlier suggestion that he needed someone like her? She'd only mentioned it because the situation had seemed so ironic, never dreaming that he'd actually ...

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" she plonked the teapot on the table and drew herself up to her full five-feet-five inches. Even though he towered above her, she'd not been a senior nurse for most of her life without learning a thing or two about taking charge. "Are you _mazed,_ boy?"

"And are you aware you're manifestly Cornish when you're agitated?" Mycroft's smile was light and his tone amused. "Do come and see my library before you say another word," he tilted his head fractionally to one side and raised his eyebrows.

Huffing at the man's scandalous idiocy, Kit heaved a sigh and waved him brusquely towards the kitchen door. "Come on, then," she muttered. "I can see I'll be having no peace unless you get to show me these books o'yourn, so lead on, young man."

 _Young man_. Mycroft smiled as he turned obediently towards the door. Kit Penderic was perfect. He was determined to have her accept his offer, no matter how precipitous it might seem.

"This way," he said, leading the woman back through the long dining room and out the far side. One the left was the entrance to the expansive drawing room in which he'd been playing the piano earlier, and to the right, down a short but spacious passageway, was a set of very tall double-doors.

Stepping forward, Mycroft paused for effect, his hands on the polished brass handles as he looked back at Kitta ... and with the smallest flick of his wrists, pushed both doors open simultaneously, stepping inside and flicking on an unobtrusive bank of light-switches.

Kit followed directly behind.

It wasn't the relatively ordinary room of books as she'd been expecting; something large and possibly stuffed to the rafters as one might envisage in such a house as this. Oh no.

It had been a Ballroom.

An immense, _astonishing_ space, easily two stories in height, with three great long Norman-style stained glass windows at the far end and a half-dozen enormous, sparkling chandeliers hanging from an exotically-decorated ceiling. The walls of the seemingly limitless chamber were covered, literally _covered_ from ceiling to floor, in great long shelves of books. Tomes and manuscripts; tall and handmade; heavy, iron-bound; delicate, silk-covered creations; volumes and volumes of stunning books. Everywhere she looked, Kit saw nothing but leather bindings and the flash of gold on hand-engraved covers. A mezzanine walkway ran around three of the four sides of the room, travelling even above the double-doors at which they were stood, from one side of the stained glass windows right around to the other, a great 'U' of books. There was a narrow iron spiral staircase in each corner of the room to either side of the doors, as well as several long wooden ladders clinging to sliding rails at various points around the room. It was like something out of a Hollywood fantasy.

And that was just what was around the _outside_ of the room.

There was a space, a gap of some several feet of polished _parquet_ floor all the way around the circumference of the room before one moved in towards the centre which was almost as filled, though these central shelves and cabinets were more spaced-out and of a height that the average human might reach without recourse to a stepladder. The four corners of this inner space were marked off by prodigious white marble statues of sitting lions, one at each of the four points of the compass, the pearly sheen of the giant pieces reflecting the lights from the crystals of the chandeliers. Most of the books in the centre-space of the great chamber were in custom-made glass cabinets or in long rows of cleverly constructed glass archival cases, each once carefully labelled and hermetically sealed, protecting their contents against the ravages of time.

Kit hadn't realised she'd been holding her breath until her chest started to ache. With a long inhale, she felt her jaw go slack as her eyes traversed and re-traversed the dimensions of the vast room. Stepping further inside, she immediately felt a difference in temperature; it was significantly cooler in here and, despite the brilliance of the chandeliers, the light was lower somehow, softer than in the rest of the house. The infinite and intricately-figured wooden floor beneath her feet deadened sound, and a collection of resplendent silk rugs muted the space still further.

"Come," beckoning her further inwards, Mycroft brought Kit to the very heart of the room decked out as a luxurious reading area, with several large and extremely comfortable leather armchairs, each with their own small table and reading light, each designed for nothing more than the indulgence of any reader who might care to use them. A low, circular table of rich, dark-red wood glowed in the middle of the seating area and held notepads and pencils; magnifying glasses and several padded wedges to support an open book. There were a number of inward-facing lecterns scattered around, each bearing an opened and fabulously illustrated book; she caught sight of fantastically coloured birds in one and what appeared to be scientific diagrams in another. The entire central ensemble rested on a massive circular carpet of silk in deep blues and greens.

"When daylight hits those windows," Mycroft indicated the three immense stained-glass creations, flat and dark now in the middle of the night, "the light in here makes it feel as if one is underwater," he smiled, clearly satisfied with his collection. "I spend more time in this room than anywhere else in the house," he nodded, turning to admire the library that had taken him hundreds of years to create.

"How many books are there?" Kit almost whispered and she swallowed past the dryness in her throat.

"Several hundred thousand," Mycroft smiled at the staggered expression on the woman's face. "Each one special in its own right, each one a collector's piece."

"And have you read all of them?" Kit really was whispering now, as if the sheer weight of the collected books was preventing her lungs from working properly.

"Oh yes," Mycroft nodded seriously. "Pick any one of them and give me the title; I'll give you a synopsis of the contents, if you wish."

"I don't disbelieve you," Kit heaved a deep breath as she looked around, shaking her head. "It's just all a bit much to take in."

"Then sit," Mycroft ushered her towards one of the indulgent leather chairs, looking vaguely pleased as she sank down into the purposely-designed softness. Kit ran her hands over the _uber_ -soft leather, her fingertips trailing across the aged wrinkles in the hide.

"Here," Mycroft paused. "Allow me," as he brought over a rounded leather _pouf_ _é_ for her feet. He stood beside a matching chair opposite and watched as she sank slowly back into the embracing comfort of the decadently comfortable seating.

Walking across to a rounded and polished drinks cabinet, he poured them both a small measure from an ornate crystal decanter. "Louis XIII de Rémy Martin," he said. "One of my favourite cognacs; a rare cask and therefore to be savoured on rare occasions." He touched his glass to hers before returning to his chair.

Kitta breathed in the incredible fragrance from the crystal balloon in her hand, the scent sufficient in itself; there was almost no need to taste the fine amber liquid.

"Are you trying to get me tipsy?" she asked, sipping the stuff anyway. "The scotch upstairs and now this?" she smiled as the cognac became a sublime glow that flowed slowly all the way down to her toes.

"I have no wish to diminish your cognitive skills in the least," he said idly, watching the swirl of the cognac as he rolled the crystal backwards and forwards in his fingers. "The opposite might be more to the point," Mycroft placed the glass on his side table and leaned forward, his eyes not leaving her face. "And now you've had a few minutes to consider my offer, perhaps we might discuss it as a possibility instead of dismissing it out of hand?"

Kitta sighed, but there was no real irritation in it.

"On the basis of an acquaintanceship lasting all of five hours or so, you're seriously prepared to offer me a live-in job taking care of young Sherlock and acting as something like a housekeeper for yourself," she said. "Is that about the length of the matter?"

"Succinctly put," he nodded. "And yes; it's precisely what I'm proposing. It would be advantageous to all parties involved."

"But you don't know anything about me," Kit sounded exasperated.

"I know all I need to know," Mycroft reclaimed his glass.

"Then I don't know anything about you," Kit threw him a look of justification. "This needs to be a two-way thing or it's not going to work, Mr Holmes."

He smiled slightly, listening to Kit talk herself into the job. "Then ask me anything you want to know," he said, leaning back, spreading his arms wide. "Ask and ye shall receive."

"If you're not a spy, then what is it you actually do?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "This place isn't going to run on the pay of a postman."

Mycroft smiled. "I really do work for the British Government," he answered easily. "I'd tell you I'm nothing more than a civil servant, but I doubt you'd accept that, would you?"

Kit raised an eyebrow and stayed silent.

"Thought not," Mycroft swirled the cognac in his glass. He took a deep breath. "It might be best to think of me as someone who is very good at problem-solving, especially the kind of problems that are rather complicated and involve both internal and external forces," he said. "My department collates all manner of unrelated national, international and global activities, and I and the people who work most closely with me, submit these activities to various analyses to see where they might lead, at which point I advise certain actions be taken," he shrugged, finishing off his drink. "A little like being a postman I suppose, but on a slightly grander scale."

"So you work for the government?" Kit nodded to herself. At least that sounded feasible. "But they wouldn't be paying you enough to have all this," she gestured at the books and the room, generally. "Would they?"

"Not even the British Government is that generous," his mouth curved fractionally. "I fear my image might take a tarnishing when I tell you that all this is inherited wealth," he said, waggling his fingers in the air. "Mostly money and properties that have come to me from various sources over the years," he added vaguely, knowing Kit would not press for financial details at this stage. "I am a wealthy man and ensure that those who work for me are well looked after."

"But why pick me?" Kitta pressed. "I'm not remotely experienced as a nanny; of course I have all sorts of medical knowledge and experience, but that's not the same thing as ..."

"The story you told me about the cow in the field is far more edifying than you might realise," Mycroft looked serious, steepling his fingers under his chin. "That alone might make you the most suitable person I could possibly hope to find for this role."

Kitta folded her arms, thinking. It was true that such a job-offer would be a godsend; the absolute perfect solution to her problems, in fact. She had no house to sell and only a few bits of old furniture to her name, so coming to live in-house, as it were, was the least of her worries. There was enough money in her savings to keep her head above water for a couple more years, but then if she had to go and rent another flat somewhere, there was no way she'd be able to afford that without getting a job of _some_ description, and who was going to give a women in her fifties any kind of job that paid a decent wage?

She sighed, still picking through the pros and cons of such an offer. Could she actually do such a job as Holmes expected her to do? It was true that she had buckets of hard-earned experience both in children's health and medical problems generally, as well as about _people_ , so it wasn't likely that young Sherlock would need more from her than she was able to provide. The sudden comprehension that he might also be interested in having a nurse around the place for his own welfare made her pause. But he didn't seem ill despite his fragile medical condition, certainly not enough to require a live-in nurse. Nor did the life she'd be leading seem at all unpleasant; looking after the boy would be little enough effort ... and then there was the housekeeping of this place ...

"What would you expect of me as your housekeeper?" she asked slowly. "I'm no great chef if you want to have parties, nor have I had much experience with complicated business accounts, and this great mansion is more than I'd be able to keep clean on my own."

Linking his fingers in his lap, Mycroft pursed his mouth and looked reflective. "On the extremely rare occasion I might entertain," he said, "I would naturally do as I have done in the past and leave the event completely in the hands of the caterers, but as I do not attend dinners, it is not something likely to happen more than perhaps once or twice a year," he added. "And since all my legal and financial details are firmly in the hands of my accountants and solicitors, then you need have no fear that you'd be expected to maintain the household accounts, though a record of major expenditures would be useful," he stretched his legs out. "And as for cleaning, the company who oversees my current cleaning arrangements would naturally be yours to review, but as long as you are content with the quality of their work, then a general supervision from you is all that might be required."

"And what about things like shopping for groceries?" Kit said. "My Jude is your assistant, you said; what does he do about the place?"

"Your nephew is becoming far too valuable to me in my government work to continue trying to assist me here as well," Mycroft looked sage. "I will need him to focus solely on his work as my assistant in Whitehall soon in any case," he paused delicately, his eyes holding hers. "So you would be indirectly assisting your nephew as well, you see."

"And you'd give me a proper contract?" she checked, confirming.

"The most proper," Mycroft hid his smile.

"With time off and holidays and all the usual stuff that goes with a full-time job?"

"With all of it," he lifted his eyebrows half an inch.

"Well then if you're _entirely_ serious about this," Kit inhaled long and slow, "and if my Jude is already happy with you as an employer," she paused. "Then ... I accept," she paused again. "With three provisos."

"Which are?" Mycroft linked his fingers together again and manfully adopted an appropriately serious demeanour; he could hardly remember when he'd last enjoyed himself as much as this evening.

"That we give this arrangement a trial for a couple of months, and if it's not working, then either one of us can call it quits and no harm done," Kit nodded. "T'is only fair; we might hate each other by the end of a week."

"Agreed. What else?"

"That young Mr Sherlock gets a say in my coming here to look after him," Kit sounded adamant. "The boy needs to feel he's got some control over what's happening in his life."

Mycroft sat and pondered for a moment, but then realised that neither of them could treat the youngest Holmes as a child of nine. Not really. He nodded briefly.

"And the final condition?" he went through the motion of asking, though he already knew what she wanted.

"That I'm allowed to come in here every so often and just look at these beautiful books," she whispered, staring around. "I wouldn't touch 'em, but just to look ... t'is like a wonderland for me, is this."

"As the Châtelaine of the house, you would have access to every part of the building; all the keys would be in your care and you may come and go as you please," he added, unable to hide his smile of satisfaction any longer.

Though even as he said the words, Mycroft knew that would not be strictly true. There were certain parts of the house that nobody other than himself ever saw ... _or even knew about_.

"Then I accept," Kit sighed and smiled. "I still think you're off your head, but I'd be a fool to turn such an opportunity down. Did you say there was a room in the building for me to use?"

"An apartment on the second floor will be yours to do with as you wish," he sounded pleased.

"Second floor?" Kit looked momentarily dubious. "That's a lot of stairs."

"Perhaps not," Mycroft stood. "If you care to follow me ..." he stood, about to make his way towards the library's main entrance.

As she got up to go with him, Kit's eye was caught by one of the several heavy, gilt-framed paintings on the wall among the rows of books. It looked particularly colourful under the light of the chandeliers and instead of accompanying Mycroft to the doors her innate curiosity had her walking towards the painting, dead centre in one of the room's long walls.

It was a massive portrait, painted in the rich colours of the Victorian _fin de siècle_ , with lustrous velvety tones and magnificent textures. The painting was of two men, both in their prime, one seated and one standing. The seat was more throne-like than an ordinary armchair, with great big upholstered wings and opulent arms, the entire thing beautifully carved, gilded and wrapped in a brilliant gold-patterned fabric. The man seated in the chair was dressed in the very height of late Victorian gentleman's fashion, his long frock coat a gleaming silk brocade, the expression on his face one of haughtiness and pride.

But it was the second man in the portrait to whom Kit's gaze was drawn. Standing casually, with one long arm resting easily across the back of the chair and the other slung comfortably in the pocket of his dress trousers, this man was clad in the darker tones of night and shade, his equally fine clothing a direct contrast to the man in the chair. Whereas the seated man embodied the rich grandeur and gold of the day, the standing man seemed to personify the contours of the night; his jet-black clothing lustrous with the sheen of a blackbird's wing. That both the men were wealthy and of high social standing was clear. The title of the painting, engraved on a small brass plaque set immediately beneath the frame read simply ' _Granville Holmes and Friend_ '.

Turning her eyes away from the two dramatic central characters for a moment, Kit looked beyond them, into the somewhat shadowy background of the painting. Even in the duskier tones, Kit could make out heavy red swags of drapes and curtains and carpets, alongside curiously feminine chairs and furnishings. She stepped a little closer, peering into the background, almost convinced she'd just spotted ... _yes_ ; a woman's corset hanging over the back of a chair and a naked female leg at the very edge of the canvas. Feeling her eyes widen, Kit moved back. She had no idea who the man in the chair was, but without question, the one standing behind was ...

"A Great Uncle of mine," Mycroft spoke from just behind her shoulder. "With one of his longtime companions from the academy of science," he said.

"Looks like science wasn't the only thing they had in common," Kit pointed out, a sly tone in her words. "I'm amazed anyone would have such a thing as this painted in a house of ill repute."

"Yes, well," Mycroft scratched his nose, a different kind of smile in his voice. "They were certainly gentlemen about town. Are you shocked?" he asked, wondering.

"About two men getting their portraits painted in a brothel, or about the fact that you are the absolute spitting image of your Great Uncle?" Kitta returned to stare at the painting, shaking her head. "That could be you leaning against that chair, you know," she said.

"There is a strong family resemblance," he agreed. "You might see one or two other portraits around the place with similar likenesses."

"There's no mistaking your family line then," Kit stepped back, her curiosity fed for the moment. "Now, what were you going to show me?"

"Ah yes," Mycroft beckoned. "I think you'll be surprised at the secrets this house holds, _not that you will ever know all of its secrets,_ especially for those who know it well."

Walking around the corridor of space between the outer wall of books and the inner of glass cases, Kit stared up as they passed one of the enormous stone lions, the top of its beautifully chiselled mane at least eight feet from the floor on which it sat. A stunning piece of sculpture, Kit thought it seemed familiar. "This looks like one of those lions at the bottom of Nelson's Column," she observed. "'Cept those are lying down and these are sitting up straight."

"Well spotted," Mycroft nodded, pleased. "The four sculptures here are indeed by Edwin Landseer, the designer of the Trafalgar bronzes," he paused. "My Great Uncle was most interested in the Arts."

As she followed him and left the library behind, Kit wondered what other works of art there might be hidden away in a great place like this. She slowed as he gestured her to walk down another passageway which turned out to be on the far side of the long dining room.

"When the house was built, there were two dumbwaiters constructed for the convenience of the servants," he said. "The one in the kitchen was removed to make way for new heating and cooling conduits throughout the house," he stopped in front of an ornate floor-to-ceiling, cabinet door, which he proceeded to open wide.

"And the other was here, outside the dining room, was used to convey coal and various other necessities up to the family bedrooms on the higher floors," he said, opening the doors wide to reveal ...

The smooth steel doors of a lift.

An equally smooth steel panel set flush into the wall held five silver buttons numbered one to four, with the highest button lettered with a capital 'A'.

"The floors above this one and then the attics," Mycroft was a mind reader, it seemed. There was also a small keyhole at the very bottom of the panel. Probably for the service people, Kit realised. All the utilities, pipes, and things would be down in the cellar.

Pressing the '2' button, the steel doors slid open with barely a whisper of sound, revealing a very small interior space, barely sufficient for three adults. Mycroft waited as the doors closed as a silent yet very powerful electric motor moved the lift carriage up through the levels. With the softest of bumps, the machinery stopped, the doors opening to a view of a long corridor ahead. Stretching a long arm around to the side of the lift, his fingertips explored quickly until they found what they were after; light switches.

In a second, the entire floor was flooded with bright, yet not too bright light, elegant wall sconces adding to the general ambiance of luxury and expensive fitments. Though up here too, Kit fancied she could detect the smell of mustiness and lack of use. Hardly surprising if it was usually only the man himself living here, she thought. No wonder the place felt like a museum. But she could soon change all that.

Walking a little ahead of her, Mycroft paused beside a tastefully painted and gilded door, smiling as he turned to face her.

"And this," he announced, throwing the door wide open for her, "will be your private suite."

Waving Kit in before him, Mycroft waited as she located the light switches on her own, standing in the entrance as she took in all the details of the space beyond the door.

This first room was obviously set up as a sitting room; chairs, a settee and several occasional tables, a few stylish pieces of furniture standing against the various walls and between the windows. There was a large, empty fireplace where Kit could easily imagine logs burning cheerfully in the winter. A door to either side of the room suggested there was more to see and turning, she walked to her right and opened it the nearest one, peering into the room beyond.

 _Oh my_.

Groping around for the light switch, Kit found herself in a very large bedroom, with the same high Georgian ceilings seen throughout the rest of the house, but this room was done out in the most wonderful shades of green and imperial Chinese yellow, from the beautifully-papered walls down to the luxurious silk carpet. The thing that really took her breath, of course, was the bed.

The tall, exquisitely carved _four-poster bed_. With wondrously embroidered silk panels and headboard, the thing looked like it would be more at home in a palace. Long framed mirrors added light to the walls, interspersed with elegantly framed painting of the regency countryside and of London in its baroque heyday. It was a stunning room and Kit had absolutely no idea what to say about it.

Two further doors dominated one of the room's long walls. To give her something to do that required no actual speaking, Kit headed for the nearest one, finding herself inside a long, dark space. Fumbling for a light switch, she realised she was in a lady's dressing room and wardrobe decked out in the same green and yellow as the bedroom. Leaving the light on she walked next door, only to find a compact but perfectly appointed bathroom with all the conveniences, although the room itself was slightly more ornate than she was used to; even the glass panels around the shower were hand-engraved.

Two long windows in the facing wall of the bedroom exactly mirrored the location of the doors and Kitta pulled back the curtains on one to look outside, only to see her rooms were at the front of the house, overlooking Pall Mall itself. The first grey tones of daylight were already creeping over the horizon and undoing the brass clasp she lifted the sash window a few inches to allow the cool draught of dawn to freshen the air. Switching off all the lights, Kit returned to the sitting room, thoughts racing around her head.

"The room in here," Mycroft had opened the door leading off to the left to reveal a spare and empty room about fifteen-feet square, "might be turned into a small kitchen and dining area for you, if you wish," he said. " _Or_ ..." he turned to catch her gaze again, a light in his eyes. "Perhaps your own library?"

The tantalising air of possibilities floated between them.

"When do you want me to start?" she asked.

Mycroft stood with both hands in his trouser pockets. "How soon can you have your belongings packed in your house in Plymouth?"

"Other than my clothes and a few personal belongings, I've really got nothing to pack," there was a note of excitement in her laughter; it was hard to believe this was happening.

"For Sherlock's sake, I'd hope you could start as soon as possible," he stepped back as Kit left the apartment, closing the door behind her. "I trust the accommodation meets your requirements?"

"It's lovely," Kit blinked, not knowing what else to say. "It's the nicest quarters I've ever had."

"Naturally, if you want to change the furniture and have the rooms decorated to your own style," he added as they headed back to the lift. "You need only make a list of what you would like and I'll see everything is arranged according to your preferences."

"There's really no need to change a thing," Kitta was still lost for words. "And I'm more than happy to begin here as soon as everything has been finalised in Plymouth."

"In that case," Mycroft paused, uncertain if he was being too demanding too soon. "With your permission, I'll have my people arrange for all your belongings to be packed and brought up here within forty-eight hours, and I'll have my solicitors ensure that you are not financially disadvantaged by moving to London," he said. "I'll also have them draw up a contract of employment for your approval," he paused again, turning to examine her expression as they stood in the passage beside the lift. "I've already seen how you are with Sherlock and I believe you are precisely what the boy needs right now. Please ... don't leave him."

Did she really need to return to Plymouth to pack up her meagre bags? There were a few people she'd like to say goodbye to, but nobody all that close, no family as such. It wasn't all that hard a decision, when she thought about it.

"Then I'll just pop over to the hotel, pack all my gear up and come directly back, in that case," Kitta nodded. "There's enough clothes and things for me to manage until my stuff arrives," she ran through a mental checklist of things she needed to do. "Though I will need to go shopping tomorrow for food for the boy and also to organise laundry and what have you."

"I will be delighted to give both you and Sherlock a proper tour of the house and all that it holds," Mycroft looked relieved. "I'll have my driver take you to your hotel; he'll wait for you and bring you back here so that you'll be here for Sherlock when he awakes," he paused, a strange cast to his features. "I'm so pleased you've agreed to help me," he said, eventually.

"Then hopefully, this arrangement will work out for all concerned," Kit smiled cheerfully. "I'll just pop down and see to the lad before I leave, just in case he's stirring at all."

He wasn't. Sherlock had barely budged at all in his sleep and looked as if he'd stay as he was for a fair while yet. _Poor thing_ , Kitta felt a wave of pity. All this upset; it was no wonder he'd sleep so heavy when he felt able. But she'd do her best to put some colour back into those cheeks, no matter what it took.

A very elegant black car was waiting for her at the front entrance; the increasing lightness of the sky making it easy now to see the road as they departed for her hotel in Piccadilly.

Watching the Jaguar head off, Mycroft experienced a conflict of emotions. On the one hand, he was sincerely thankful that that matter of Sherlock's material welfare had been organised so swiftly and with relatively little pain. He had no doubt that Kit Penderic would be exactly what the child needed right now.

But there was another part of him which felt sharp concern that his once private and reclusive life was suddenly at the mercy of others; that he might no longer be able to maintain the secrecy his very existence demanded.

He sighed. That problem could take its turn with all the rest.

Right now, in his last hour of privacy, there was one thing he wanted to do; there was no telling when the next opportunity might arise.

Heading back towards the library, Mycroft ignored the lights, his eyes requiring no additional assistance, and walked directly to the portrait of he and Granville Holmes painted in lieu of an unpaid gambling debt by a visiting Spanish portraitist, de Madrazo. He smiled briefly as his memory took him back to the few sittings he and Granville had endured in the bordello while de Madrazo captured every last little detail, insisting that the two men receive their money's worth. The ladies of the establishment had been equally insistent.

But now was not the time for reminiscing. Reaching up to the small brass plaque bearing the painting's title, Mycroft pressed firmly on the right-hand side of the piece of metal, directly on the word 'Friend'.

With an indistinct _click_ , the section of wall directly beneath the painting slid back and inwards. Ducking his head slightly, he stepped forward, into the dark recess.


	5. in which Mycroft protects his secrets and Sherlock begins to explore.

 

Stepping easily into the darker depths of the hidden passageway, Mycroft had no need of additional illumination and moved swiftly down a long stairway, his feet sure with the knowledge of centuries. It was only when he reached the bottom of the stairs that he bothered locating a light switch; the things he wanted to find meant even his eyes needed a little help.

The main space that came into clearer view once the lights were on was large; not as immense as the library above his head, but at least a third of the size, the dimensions difficult to make out given the deliberate darkness of everything down here. And it was a dark place; there were things down here that he never wanted anyone else to see, things that might well be damaged in the full light of day, including himself. It was down here, in his most private of sanctums, that Mycroft kept his _special_ collections.

It was as cool as the library, the same chilled and conditioned air being filtered down here as well as the space above. Yet whereas the library was a place of light and enlightenment, everything about _this_ place spoke of the night and of secrets; the wooden boards of the floor, walls and ceiling were all completely dark; not black, but a very deep blue, the colour always reminding him pleasingly of unfathomable sea-caves. There were no windows, the only illuminations coming from rows and rows of small downlights embedded into the ceiling which he could turn off at the wall or dim from a handset control. Right now, he left them on half-light; more than sufficient to see anything he wanted.

The first things that came into focus were shelves and racks of men's clothing; entire strata of frogged coats, military uniforms, hats and headgear ranging from subtle black velvet Tudor caps, to great flamboyant tricornes; feathered and gold braided. Old weapons; an assortment of boots and shoes. Three hundred years of swords hung along one wall, above a cabinet filled with all manner of pistols, from single-shot muzzle loaders through flintlocks and one, of which he was particularly proud, an 1866 Remington Derringer, beautifully damascened and ornate.

Pots of quill pens jostled piled heaps of scrolled papers, their red ribboned seals dangling over the edges of shelves. Boxes and boxes of letters still folded inside opened envelopes, the history of the world told by stamps. More books, though these were hand-written, more like notebooks than anything more formal; journals and diaries. Great piles of newspapers and magazines were stacked neatly, their dates, if one could see beyond the disintegrating sheets, reaching back to the time of King James himself. There were also heavy rolls of treated vellum, lambskin and parchment used to convey the orders of the day before the use of paper became widespread. Dozens of waxed cylinders for Edison's phonograph were stacked carefully along several wide shelves, the dry coolness of this subterranean retreat maintaining their integrity for over a hundred years. Around the exterior of the room were glass-fronted cabinets, similar to those in the library, which held some of his most precious books. Down here, however, the contents were a little more esoteric.

Beyond the clutter of centuries, there was a wide open seating area; a great modern, modular setting of extravagantly padded cushions, each one linked to another at its side. Several sections were set up as wide chairs, one or two as daybeds and a few others as disconnected seating that might be moved to meet whatever purpose took his fancy. Piles of soft pillows filled the corners of the arrangement; he had spent many a day down here, dozing in the shadows. There was an enormous television and the very latest in stereophonic equipment from Bang and Olufsen, everything sleek and black; the best technology money could buy for the day. He was even able to play the new CDs that were just becoming so popular; large numbers of the slim silver discs stacked on nearby shelves.

Fixed to the expanse of wall above the seating was a large framed glass box and inside, sealed in argon gas and carefully stretched out to its fullest dimensions, was an ancient cow hide, the skin still clearly marked with arcane symbols and runes

Mycroft walked past all of this, past the wooden campaign boxes containing the instruments of war, the maps and written orders, the stacked furniture of war rooms too numerous to count. Heading towards the far end of this room of earthly treasures, he walked directly up to several large leather chests pushed up against the farthest wall, partly covered by the row of somewhat tattered battle-colours hanging from heavy steel hooks above. Standing in thought for a moment, he wondered which of the huge trunks he needed to open. When the appropriate memory came to the fore, he lifted the solid brass latch of the centre chest, heaving up the stiffened leather top and peering inside.

The dull glow of gold reflected brightly, even in the half-light. This chest contained mostly gold coin, though there were quantities of silver crowns in there too; he hadn't really worried about small details when he'd dragged the thing down here. Rummaging around, he picked out a large double-handful of mint-quality gold sovereigns, their total market value currently in the thousands, if only for their historical merit. He barely remembered the times he'd taken the profits of some venture or other and thrown them in here. Looking around for a suitable container, he spotted a small wooden box in a corner of the chest of an appropriate size. It was only after he'd opened the thing that the unexpected music played and reminded him of something far more interesting than gold coins.

 _Leipzig, 1815_. It had been near the end of the campaign in France and he had been acting as spy for Wellington's British and Blücher's Prussians in the West and East, against Napoleon's in the South. He had taken the name _Vernet_ for the interim, in order to blend in. And there had been that one night, _one single night_ ... her name had been, he closed his eyes ... _Sabine_ , and she was not only beautiful, but like him, a soldier of sorts, though the weapons she used were far less obvious than those in the world around her. He closed his eyes again, remembering...

"You do not look like a Frenchman," she said as she served him cognac in the café. It was late and he was one of three remaining patrons and the only one sporting a French military cloak. His own had become ... unwearable.

Had he not seen so much of blood and death in the last few days, he would most likely have dismissed her observation and kept himself to himself. But he had ridden the main roads from Quatre-Bras to Brussels and had seen afresh the utter misery and horror of physical conflict on the grand scale. Though he had been on battlefields many times, such gratuitous waste of human life always left him repulsed and angry. And tonight he was weary of the bloodshed, of the sound of dying men and the knowledge that whatever he did now, nothing was going to stop the final confrontation between Wellington and Napoleon from taking place. Mycroft felt heartsick and strangely tired.

And terribly reckless.

"I am not French," he said in French, sipping the golden spirit and waiting for it to burn through his veins and arteries, filling him with a warmth he'd almost forgotten existed. Despite her thinking him a Frenchman, he could have turned his words to Dutch or Prussian or German at will; but tonight he suddenly felt like tempting the fates. "I'm British."

The woman stopped, staring at him briefly but then relaxed. "Then you must have news of the war," she said still in French, pointing to the table's other chair. "May I join you?"

Mycroft shrugged; _her choice_. "You likely know as much as I," he kept his voice low. No point in attracting too many unfriendly ears, and Napoleon had spies everywhere. "I'm only a lowly messenger."

 _A messenger of death_. He carried the field plans of Napoleon's _grande batterie_ in his head, stolen from a French courier who paid for his patriotism with his life. Mycroft had memorised the plans then burned them; there was little reason allowing the enemy to steal them back. He had also taken the man's cloak; his own now too blood-stained to wear.

"I'm sure you know a great deal more than I, _Monsieur_ ," she had smiled, pouring herself a cognac and toasting him with her glass. "It takes a brave man to travel around the countryside these days, especially one who does not bother to hide his nationality in the country of his enemies."

"But I am British and we are in Germany," Mycroft's smile was innocuous. "I thought we were friends?"

"I would be very happy to be your friend," she said, smiling coquettishly. "My name is Sabine."

Mycroft savoured the glow of the liquid spirit expanding through his body, just as he felt the proximity of the woman's warm body lifting his senses. Perhaps, just for a few hours, he might be forgiven for delaying a battle that would decimate three armies. He looked up from his glass, his expression openly hungry. "Perhaps we should go somewhere more ... _private?_ "

Standing, Sabine threw back her drink, the hard spirit making her wince as it caught in her throat. "Come with me," she said, checking to see the others had gone, then beckoning him around to a set of external stairs. Running swiftly to the top, she opened a door and ushered him through into a dark room above the café.

Immediately expecting an ambush of some kind, Mycroft held himself taut and alert until it became clear that he and the woman were the only two beings in the room. Turning, his fingers found the key in the lock. It twisted with a discernible _click_.

"So, now we are in private," there was the sound of a match striking, before a small flare of light was applied to the stump of a candle. Hardly any light at all, but far more than Mycroft needed to see everything in the room. Two cheap wooden chairs, a small table carrying a china bowl and water jug. A narrow bed.

"And now you need not fear being French in an unfriendly country," Sabine stepped closer, her fingers raised to the white linen cravat at his throat. "So very French," she whispered, leaning into him, her face tilted up for his kiss.

The feel of such warmth separated from him by only a few thicknesses of fabric made Mycroft's head spin as his arms surrounded her and his mouth grazed the pale softness of her throat. For one wild moment, he felt an urge to bite, the lushness of the woman's body, the smell of violets in her hair and the sun of her skin; it was enough to drive a man to distraction. He pulled her closer instead, taking her mouth in a kiss that left her breathless. If his heart still had a beat, it would have been thunderous.

"You feel cold," Sabine whispered. "You must be tired; come, take your rest," she added, pulling the cloak from his shoulders and reaching for the buttons of his dark jacket. He permitted her fingers to pull his clothing apart as he revelled in the flush of heat from her neck and throat and the incredible soft roundness of her breasts in the low-necked gown.

"Tell me," he whispered, his teeth nipping at her earlobe, one hand in her tumbling hair, the other exploring her décolletage. "Have there been other strangers in these parts before me today?" his mouth teased the side of her neck as he unlaced the fastening of her dress, peeling it from her shoulders.

"Nobody else," Sabine groaned, her eyes closed in pleasure. "Are you sure you are not French?" she breathed. "You make love like a Frenchman."

"Definitely British," Mycroft's nimble fingers were loosening the silk ties of her corset now, feeling a surge of heat as her body shed its layers of protection. His opened shirt allowed their skin to press together at last and he sighed at the exquisite sensation of the warm and pliant form curled against him. "God save the king," he murmured, taking her bodily in his arms and laying them both down on the bed, his lips again at her throat as her blood pulsed hot and fast beneath the skin.

"You are the first Briton I have seen here for a very long while," Sabine arched her back as his hands explored the curved heat of her body. "You might be anyone ... a spy, even."

"I am a spy," Mycroft felt desire roar in his ears. "I am here to steal your secrets."

"I have no secrets," the woman writhed beneath him, eyes closed, panting as Mycroft made love like a Frenchman.

"Not anymore," there was amusement in his voice as he sought the depths of her, her inner fire warming even his cool flesh. Relishing her body just as he relished her obvious pleasure, it seemed scant moments only before she convulsed in his arms and bit his neck. The irony of the situation was not lost on him even as he felt his own fire drive him on to a tempestuous explosion of light and heat. He lay still, absorbing the glow between them. It had been a long time since he'd given in to such mortal cravings.

Brushing his face with a soft murmur, Sabine turned onto her side; her breathing gentle and regular and it seemed as if she slept. While he had no such need, the opportunity to share the intimacy of another's warmth and trust was far too rare an occasion to dismiss lightly and he lay in the narrow bed, curled around the woman as she slumbered. He knew he had to reach his destination before the sun climbed too high in the sky, but he had a few hours of respite yet. He laid his face against Sabine's warm neck and closed his eyes, relaxing, despite himself.

"You think we are done so soon?" the woman's low voice held laughter as she stirred, turning back to face him. "No self-respecting Frenchman would forsake his lover so quickly," she murmured, her fingers stroking his skin beneath the bed covers. "Kiss me," she whispered, boneless and utterly yielding in his arms.

"I am but a poor Briton, unversed in the ways of romance," Mycroft felt the heat between them rise again. "But I shall do my best," he sighed nobly, wrapping himself around her softness as he re-explored her tantalising liquefaction.

The coolness of the morning air brought the woman slowly awake, the bed beside her curiously empty after the ardent embraces of the night. She stretched and smiled, wondering where he was. Opening her eyes, Sabine sat, realising she was alone in the room. Wrapping herself in a thin blanket, she went to the window, peering through the grimy glass into the sombre pre-dawn.

A great dark horse snorted puffs of steam and stamped its feet, itching to be away, its bridle held by the ostler as the horse's owner counted several coins into the stablehand's open fingers.

He was leaving without so much as a farewell? Sabine had known he was a French spy; everything about him had screamed the fact.

But so was she, and she'd be damned before she'd allow any man to leave her like this, let alone one of her own countrymen. Opening the stiff windows, she leaned out, the blanket covering nothing. "You have to leave me so early?" she called, softly.

"Duty calls, meine _schöne_ Dame," Mycroft's foot was already in the stirrup and he swung himself into the saddle. "Or should that be 'ma _belle_ dame'?" he laughed, speaking in English for the first time and sweeping his hat from his head as he gave her a great bow.

Feeling an instant fury at having been so easily found out and used, even though the night had been a memorable one. "You _brute!_ " Sabine cried, as the man's laughter echoed in the still of the morning. Reaching for something to throw at him, her fingers closed around an old broken musical box and she heaved it down at his head.

Catching the missile easily, Mycroft tucked it inside his jacket and he wheeled his horse towards the road at a canter. " _Auf wiedersehen_ , my dear," he waved a hand and was gone.

As if it had been only weeks instead of almost two-hundred years ago, he smiled fleetingly at the recollection, his fingers turning the small box over and over, tactile cognition adding to the memory. Replacing it carefully in the chest, he found a worn leather drawstring bag instead, which he filled with the golden coins. He weighed the pouch in his hand, satisfied that it would be sufficient for the moment. He'd instruct his investment people to sell the gold and create a specific household account for Kitta Penderic's use, as well as making arrangements for regular future transfers from his more usual sources. He'd need to make arrangements for Sherlock as well, in case anything happened to _him_.

As the thought of Kit's return from her hotel crystallised, Mycroft stood, closing the trunk lid and looking around his most private of sanctuaries. Was there anything he needed? He had no idea when he might safely return; it would take time to establish the routines of his two new guests and until then, he would stay away from this place.

Returning to the library he pulled the painting's small brass plaque forward until it once again clicked into place, the moveable section of wall emerging until it was flush with the rest of the wall. Early daylight was already lighting the vast room; the colours of the sea diluting the sunlight into waves of turquoise and green, with shades of deepest blue and hints of purple. Mycroft smiled at the sight. No matter how long his existence might continue, this one sight made each day worthwhile.

Stepping back into the main body of his house, he checked the Hunter watch that hung always at his side. Kitta had been gone for almost half-an-hour and he doubted she would be much longer given that her hotel was less than two minutes away as the crow flew. He had also given his driver instructions to deal with Kit's hotel bill regardless of any protestations she might make; she was one of _his_ people now.

As was Sherlock. But the boy was closer than anyone else had been in his life. Sherlock was _family_. Other than his own parents and siblings now long dead, Mycroft had had no real family in his life. _Ever_. The thought of Sherlock growing up under his protection and care both thrilled and terrified.

Heading back upstairs to the guest room directly adjacent to the master suite, he opened the door carefully, aware from Kit that sleep was a good thing for the boy to have. With his eyes still closed and one arm raised over his head, Sherlock lay on his back, his face pale and still in the early morning light. Such daylight wouldn't bother Mycroft for some while; he had at least another two hours before the brightness began to hurt his eyes and he would feel the first tendrils of drowsiness begin to steal him away.

There was a soft stirring in the mound of blankets as Mycroft took the chair Kitta had been using, right next to the bed. He checked, his eyebrows lifting as a pair of pale blue eyes pulled themselves wearily open.

"Good morning," he crossed his legs and relaxed back into the chair. "How are you feeling?"

A semi-sleepy blink preceded a lethargic body-turn as the child buried his face in the white cotton pillowcase. "Not awake yet," the mutter was muffled by the pillow but clear enough.

"Then go back to sleep; there's no need for you to do anything today except rest and gather your wits," Mycroft made to rise to leave the boy in peace.

"Don't go," Sherlock's tone was a little more urgent. He turned his face sideways on the pillow to stare at his new guardian. "I've never been in your house before," he said. "I might get lost."

"It is indeed a sizeable building," Mycroft nodded thoughtfully as he retook the seat. "Though I feel sure someone of your intellectual capacity would eventually be able to trek their way down to the kitchen. And if you did go astray, I doubt you would perish of malnutrition or exposure before the search parties managed to locate you."

"You don't know that," Sherlock closed his eyes again. "There could be dozens of secret dead bodies in cupboards or under the floorboards."

 _If so, they'd found their way there since he'd had the house built in 1630._ Mycroft smiled knowingly. "I am confident there are no secret dead bodies of any description within these walls," he said. Other than himself, of course.

"Do you have a cellar?" Sherlock rolled onto his back, starting to take more of an interest in the conversation.

"There is such a thing, but it's mostly filled with machinery for the heating and cooling of the house, as well as electrical wiring and boilers and other such essentials," Mycroft leaned forward slightly. "You are not to go down there," he said. "It's far too dangerous for children, even for one as advanced in years as yourself," he added, sitting back. "There _are_ some rather large and relatively wild attics," he paused casually, examining his nails. "I doubt anyone has been up there in decades, so if there were to be any corpses, that's where they'd probably be," he nodded reflectively. "Not even I go up there without very good cause."

"And will I be permitted to explore all the rest of the house apart from the cellar?" Sherlock's voice sounded animated for the first time since the funeral. It made Mycroft feel he might be able to get a grip on this parenting thing after all.

"I have taken the liberty of asking Miss Penderic to stay on for a while to look after such things as your meals and general welfare," Mycroft pursed his lips. "She has much life-experience that you might find useful to learn; medical knowledge, for instance. As long as you are able to keep that lady happy, then you may explore this house to your heart's content," he paused, meeting the boy's blue-grey gaze. "Though I warn you, she is a formidable woman and will, I expect, demand that you eat and sleep regularly," he shrugged. "But as long as you satisfy her requirements, you may consider the house, apart from the cellar, yours to roam."

"May I look at the attics today?"

"As soon as you've bathed and dressed and breakfasted, I shall take you up there myself," Mycroft experienced enormous relief. The child had barely put more than a handful of words together since he heard the news of his parent's demise and now, suddenly, he was not only talking, but talking about exploring. Clearly, Kitta knew more than she'd let on about the welfare of children; that she had agreed to take on the care and feeding of the youngest Holmes was a great weight from his mind.

"Kit has just gone to her hotel to collect her bags and will be returning momentarily," Mycroft took out his Hunter. "If you were to have a quick shower ... you do know how to use a shower?..." he paused until Sherlock rolled his eyes at such pathetic adult ignorance. "Good, then," Mycroft snapped his watch closed. "Go and shower and clean your teeth and then come downstairs to the kitchen for your breakfast. I'll show you around the house afterwards, but then I must be off to Whitehall, though I'll return later this evening."

Leaving the boy to heave himself out of bed, Mycroft whistled softly as he walked back down the stairs. He had heard the front door close a few minutes prior and had no doubt that Kit was already in the kitchen, probably thinking up something to tempt the fragile appetite of a young and exhausted child.

Not was his assumption wrong. The sound of running water and the clanking of pans and china was music to his ears.

"You want another cup of tea?" Kitta was in the process of filling the kettle as she spoke. "All this running around has left me parched to death."

"For myself, no thank you," Mycroft watched as the woman moved competently around the room, already knowing where things were. There were also another couple of yet-unpacked grocery bags on the countertop.

"Thought the laddie might like pancakes for his breakfast," she said, rinsing off a punnet each of blueberries and raspberries. "Reckoned he might be tempted by something light and sweet, a bit of sweetness won't hurt," she said, pulling out flour and vanilla and more eggs. There was also a small pot of Cornish clotted cream. "Put some energy into him and some fat on those bones," she added. "And I'll probably have some too," she grinned suddenly. "Not that I'm likely to fade away," she laughed, turning to whisk the batter.

"I'll have to leave for my office within the hour," he said, picking up and examining the pot of cream, reading the ancient family name of the makers and the town of production. Once more, there seemed to be so many connections with Cornwall in his life. Not that he had ever ascribed to superstition, but to be suddenly inundated with points of recall from his earliest existence had to mean something ... such coincidence could hardly be so coincidental, could it? "Sherlock is currently showering and will be down here for his breakfast shortly," Mycroft replaced the cream, his eyes assessing the quality and variety of the foodstuffs Kitta Penderic was about to feed his young ward. He nodded to himself. With luck, Sherlock might begin to thrive again under her care.

Soft footsteps came to a halt just inside the kitchen door causing both adults to turn their heads. Though dressed in his clothes of the previous day, and with damp curls clinging to the side of his head, at least Sherlock looked less woebegone than the night before. Making no comment, Kit pulled out a chair for him at the big kitchen table.

"And what would you like to drink with your pancakes, young Mr Sherlock? Milk or orange juice or water?"

"Coffee, please," he rested his forearms on the table, the heels of his shoes hooked over the rung of the chair. "Black, with two sugars."

"No coffee for you at all while you're still in single digits," Kitta smiled faintly and carried on with her pancake preparations without pause. "You may have a cup of tea this afternoon, but for the rest of the day, it'll be water or milk or juice," she turned. "So ...?"

Heaving a great sigh at the unfair travails set about his person on this, the very first morning of his new residence ... "Juice please," he checked. "Is it freshly squeezed?"

The smile on Kit's face grew wide even as her eyebrows lifted in amusement. She was well used to finickety patients. "It's the freshest and most squeezed juice we have in the entire house," she said putting a large plate down in front of him with two rolled up pancakes drizzled in honey and lemon, and scattered with soft fruit. Opening the refrigerator, she took out a large glass jug half-filled with frothy orange liquid, the sharp scent of citrus filling the room. Mycroft, a silent but not unamused witness to the entire exchange, noted with approval that the appliance seemed unusually well-stocked with comestibles. No likelihood of the child going without.

"I shall be in my office when you're done here, Sherlock," he walked towards the kitchen entrance. "And will be happy to escort you to the attics as soon as Kit has explained what she wants you to do today, _remember_ ..." he paused in the doorway, one long-fingered hand resting on the smooth paintwork, his eyes moving from Sherlock to Kit and back. "You are to keep Miss Penderic happy at all costs if you wish to maintain your freedom."

Sitting back in his chair and chewing a large slab of pancake, Sherlock looked from one adult to the other, before shrugging and retuning to the business of eating. At least he was eating _something_ , Kitta felt a small wave of relief at the fact; children behaved in all manner of strange ways when they were upset.

The pancakes and fruit were completely gone and the last of the orange was rapidly disappearing as Kit turned, an index-finger in the air. Sherlock stilled, waiting for the inevitable sword of Damocles to descend upon his already unfairly burdened head.

"I don't care where you are or what you are doing, but at precisely ten-thirty this morning, you will be back down here for mid-morning tea," she said. "I shall be making hot scones with strawberry jam and cream and it would make me very happy if you ate one," she said. "Do you have a watch?" When he shook his head, Kit undid the strap of her own small and utilitarian device, handing it over. "I have a clock," she pointed to the wall. "And now so do you," she added.

"Is that all you want me to do?" Sherlock stood uncertainly.

"You think I'm going to have you doing hard labour for me?" Kitta laughed, waving him away. "Off you go and play now, and I'll see you later."

Not needing any further encouragement, Sherlock dashed from the room, tearing around the already half-familiar passages until he flew past an opened door.

"In here, Sherlock," Mycroft was still seated at his desk in a large, regularly shaped room with wood panelling and thick Persian rugs. An enormous old desk was covered in papers. It seemed to be a typical sort of office for a house of this size. The only odd thing was that the heavy curtains were drawn closed. If the lamps had not been on, Mycroft would have been sitting in darkness.

"Ready to explore the untamed wilderness of the attics?" Mycroft capped his fountain pen and stood, a faintly pleased smile on his face. At the unabashed desire on the child's face, he laughed aloud.


	6. in which much is explored and strange things are discovered.

 

Mycroft is reminded instantly of a puppy. A little black Lab, or even, perhaps, a Border collie, all paws and knees and enthusiasm. Sherlock is standing in front of his desk just _dying_ to explore his new surroundings and he laughs, as pleased as the boy to have him here.

"Come on, then," he's aware of the smile spreading across his face and while such enjoyment feels odd and even a little unnatural, it also feels inexplicably good. "Come with me."

Sherlock bounces along at his side as they climb the stairs. It's a long way to the top of the house, though for Mycroft it's no effort at all and Sherlock is so inexpressibly excited at all the new things he's seeing that the child is practically flying. It was just as well Kit had taken it upon her to feed the boy up; he was going to be burning through calories as fast as she could get them into him, at this rate.

They paused on the top landing, directly beside the entrance to the attics themselves. There were paintings hung throughout the house, but the ones up on this floor seemed of particular interest to the child. Mycroft watched as Sherlock stood still for the first time since he entered the office downstairs.

The paintings were, like most of the others in the house, oils; framed in substantial nineteenth-century gilded wood-and-plaster frames, heavy and solid. They looked very grand, as did all the art in the house, but this painting held the child's curiously still. It was the actual subject of the image that caught at his attention.

"How old is this?" Sherlock tilted his head and stared at the painted scene with great interest. Standing behind the boy, Mycroft looked at the picture, recalling its precise genesis. It's an old one, early eighteenth-century at least, and is of a man, in a rather grand military uniform of the day, seated against a painted backdrop of clouds and some vaguely sketched countryside. But the focus of the painting is definitely the man in the uniform.

Mycroft winced. Even given the age of the work, it's clear that the man was wearing an Imperial Russian officer's uniform, black, with great gold epaulets and ceremonial ropes of gold braid across the right side of his chest, and a line of medals across the left. A most grand and dignified painting of a senior officer at the height of his power and significance. The reason for Mycroft's slight grimace however was none of this; it was because the painting was of _himself_.

Racking his memory, he tried vainly to recall the particulars of the sitting, but he couldn't even remember the artist, let alone the ... no, _wait_ ...

January of 1798. _The Imperial Guard in Moscow_. He remembered the date specifically because there had been so little daylight in the middle of the Russian winter that for the first time in over a thousand years, he had almost been able to brave the midday sun. As it was, it had been child's play to keep himself busy and out of view for the few hours until true darkness fell. He had been working as an Intelligence agent on behalf of the British Chancellery in Paris and posed briefly as a Russian nobleman in order to confirm the geopolitical ambitions of Paul the First, Emperor of All the Russias and only son of Catherine the Great. While the Russian court celebrated in wondrous splendour, the rest of the empire shivered and starved. As did the imperial military, though the officers, and especially the aristocratic _foreign_ officers of whom there were more than a few, were treated lavishly. One such 'treatment' was to have one's portrait painted as soon as possible, in case of imminent death, one imagined, either on the battlefield or in a duel of honour. He had tried to avoid the ordeal but to have protested too much would have drawn unwanted attention. And it _was_ a rather pleasing portrait. Mycroft sighed inwardly; a moment of vanity on his part to hang onto the thing, but hopefully easily explained.

"One of my forebears," he said. "Though his name escapes me at present; an Imperial officer of the Tsar at a time when the Russian army's commanders were almost uniquely foreign."

Sherlock turned from the painting to search Mycroft's face. "You look identical, you know," he said, his eyes scrutinising the tall man's features. "It might even be you in that painting."

Mycroft smiled blandly, lifting his eyebrows. Kit had said much the same thing in the library. "My family line has a most distinctive set of facial features," he said. "You'll probably see several paintings around the house with similar attributes," he added. "Most of them in uniform of one sort or another; my ancestors were a bloodthirsty lot, apparently." _Never a truer word had been spoken_ , he realised.

Seemingly satisfied, Sherlock turned his attention back to the tall painted double-doors set in the middle of the wall by the landing on the fourth floor. Looking down to either end of the long corridor in which they stood, he could see a fair number of smaller doors set into the wall at regular intervals.

"This floor used to be the servants' quarters," Mycroft grasped and twisted the rounded handles of the attic doors, turning them stiffly until the doors parted and opened inwards until they rested tidily against the walls behind.

A single flight of relatively steep wooden stairs reached upwards bordered by plain white distempered walls, the wide treads of each step unmarked and thick with dust. Nobody had been this way for a very long time, Mycroft realised, not even he had needed to climb all the way up here for ... how long had it been? Fifty years? A hundred? Was there anything up here that might be dangerous to the boy? He calmed himself. Sherlock wasn't an infant, but a very clever and insightful child. No matter what was up here, he would be fine.

"You realise you are going to get utterly filthy in all this dust?" Mycroft was already wiping his hands on a handkerchief. "It's just as well you've still got a change of clothes in your room and I've arranged for all your belongings to be brought over here by this evening," he added. "I can't imagine Miss Penderic being thrilled with a chimney sweep trailing muck all over the house."

"But I can go up and explore still?" there was a note of anxiety in Sherlock's voice as if, even now, Mycroft might change his mind.

"Have you had your instructions from Kit?" Mycroft shook out the white linen square and began refolding it.

"She lent me her watch; I'm to be back in the kitchen at ten-thirty for morning tea," Sherlock frowned, extracting Kit's old timepiece from his pocket and checking the time. "As if eating is going to be anywhere near as interesting as what's up here," he muttered.

Above his head, Mycroft found himself smiling yet again, his face finding the unaccustomed expression a little easier each time. "I have to leave for my office now, but I'll be back before you're in bed ..." he paused doubtfully. "What time do you have to be in bed?"

"Midnight, usually," Sherlock sounded entirely innocent. Too innocent.

"I think we'll take that one under advisement from Miss Penderic for the foreseeable future, shall we?" Mycroft checked his Hunter, then glanced at the increasing light-levels in the corridor. He had to be safely ensconced in his nicely internal Whitehall office before much longer or he'd start to feel sleepy. There was one last thing. He pointed Sherlock's attention towards an inconspicuous doorway down the right-hand side of the long passageway.

"Behind that door is a lift that will take you down to the ground floor a great deal faster than running down the stairs," he said. "I'd prefer to think you are going to be sensible and not do dangerous things, but I know how easy it is to rush when one is late," he added. "Take the lift down and then use it as often as you please."

The suddenly agonised look on Sherlock's face made it quite clear that he was now torn between _immediately_ investigating something as breath-taking as a _private_ lift, or sticking to his first desire which was to plunder the mysteries of the attic above his head. Heading towards the lift himself, Mycroft smiled again.

The lure of the staircase beside him won out and as Mycroft stepped into the space behind the opened lift door, Sherlock turned his full attention to the incalculable delights that waited at the top of the flight of steps. Depressing all of the light switches just inside the door, the gloom at the top of the stairs immediately brightened and he made his way cautiously up each stair, his feet testing each one for creaks or looseness, each a possible indication of a false tread, beneath which might lay even greater concealments. There were seventeen stairs, but, deplorably, no indication of additional mysteries other than the thickness of dust itself. Judging by the depth of the imprint left by his shoes, there had to be at least a half-inch of the stuff. Something deep inside him thrilled; it was like being an explorer at the North Pole. Nobody had been up here for an exceptionally long time; the dust was almost like snow; only his footsteps would show. As his head rose above the floor of the attic itself, the first things that made themselves known was the ambient coolness, the temperature noticeably lower than the house itself. And then there was the smell.

The smell of dust depends to a significant degree on the nature of the articles upon which time lays its decay as well as the level of moisture in the air. Too damp, and things rot; the smell is both acrid and unpleasant; with various moulds corrupting the integrity of everything until even the structure of the building itself may be compromised. The smell up here, Sherlock was relieved to discover, was sweet and dry; there was a fragrance of old straw and leather and vaguely, of machine oil. The space around him was perfect.

And really _big_. Turning his head first left and then right, all that could be seen, to the very extent of his vision, was attic, a great big long central space atop the house, too big to be thought of as a single 'room'. It was far more like a long tunnel than anything else; a long, square-roofed tunnel with windows in it.

Nor was this space empty. From the large, wood-battened cases directly in front of him at the top of the stairs, to the equally intriguing sheet-covered shapes and arrangements leading off bilinearly into the distance, the space was relatively packed. Sherlock felt a grin curve his mouth; this was going to be a _monumental_ work of exploration. And it was all _his_.

Deciding to start in the middle and work his way left, the first items he needed to examine were, naturally, the great big wooden crates almost directly in line with the entrance stairs. Taller than he by about three feet, they were too heavy to move and, judging by the level of dust on the horizontal edges of the timber braces, they had been there for a very long time. What were they? How had they been brought up here? He measured off the widest sides of one of the crates with his feet; it would have been too broad to have been carried up the stairs, therefore, there were only three alternatives. Either they had been brought to the attic another way, craned up to the roof after removing one of the windows, perhaps; or they had been lifted up from the floor below through a hole made in the attic floor itself, _or_ ... it had been built in situ, right here, and had not been moved since. There were no markings on the exterior of the case, no indication as to its contents ... a puzzle, then. Sherlock determined to locate a crowbar and investigate all the cases with greater thoroughness at some point.

Leaving them until another visit, he turned to his left, his eyes scanning the various cloth-covered, lumpy shapes, a particularly intriguing one leaning up against an old set of bookshelves. Pulling the thin dust cover away, Sherlock grinned as he revealed an old bicycle, though there was something odd about it. On closer examination, he saw that although both wheels were the same size, the centre bar of the frame was shaped into a high convex curve, with the saddle behind that. It looked like no bike he'd seen before and he pulled it out of its long shelter. Clearly, a machine built for a man's height, Sherlock tried to fit one leg over the bar but it was far too high for him. Leaning it back up against the shelves, he scraped his knee against a large, tin box, rusting around the corners and rim. Picking it up, it was heavy and rattled. His eyes widened. Now, _how to get the thing open_ ...

Kit was doing a fair bit of her own exploring down in the kitchen. There were two doors, the main one leading back into the rest of the house itself, down the passage and around a corner from the dining room. The other led out the far side of the kitchen into what was obviously the old Butler's pantry. A largish, empty stone-floored room, with ceiling-to-floor cupboards all a glossy creamy-white paint, Kit had no idea what might be in any of them and was determined to find out, though she'd need steps to reach the top ones. Carrying a notebook and pen, she was making a great big list of everything she could think she might need. As she found various implements, a galvanised bucket here, ancient brass-weighted scales there, she crossed them off the list, though she was amazed at the sheer scarcity of _everything_. But then, as Mycroft Holmes lived alone and couldn't abide eating, then there was no reason to expect him, a bachelor, to have such things, was there?

Apart from the door back into the kitchen, there were two other openings, one at either end of the Butler's pantry, and she headed for the one nearest to her left. Beyond it was an old storeroom; small, but with long, L-shaped slate shelves and lots of storage space beneath the lowest. The room would be perfect for a larder, should one ever be needed. The door on the other end led into a scullery, with big old square sinks down at one end, probably where the laundry of the house use to be done. There was yet another door in the room, an external one. Managing to withdraw the three long security bolts and turn the extremely stiff deadbolt lock, Kitta pulled the heavy door inwards and found herself in ... a beautiful, high-walled courtyard.

The space was not large, just enough to hang three or four bedsheets in a row from one end of the yard to the other and judging by the several old clotheslines that still dangled loosely from hooks and pulleys on the walls, that had been precisely its purpose. The little yard was indeed a suntrap and she squinted, shading her eyes at the morning sun that filled the entire stone-walled box. Kit looked around, pleased. With a little work, this would be a lovely spot, not only for drying the laundry but also a quiet nook to come out and have a cup of tea in the afternoons. She might even be able to put some tomatoes in and maybe a pot or two of roses. It was full of weeds, of course, and what looked to be a few slates off one of the nearby roofs; hard to say which one from down here, enclosed entirely in tall blank stone walls. A faded, round-arched door was in one corner but it was heavily barred and adorned with a large and very serious padlock; it probably let out into a lane beyond.

Quietly thrilled with her discovery, Kit returned the way she'd come, ensuring the back door was carefully locked and bolted as she'd found it. Investigating the sinks, she saw that the pipes and taps looked relatively new. Turning on one of the hot taps, she held her fingers in the running water until it grew too hot to bear. Certainly no problem with hot water, in that case, but there were no other signs of modern living; no washing machine, nor was there any sign of an iron that she'd been able to find. Mind you, she thought, someone like Mycroft Holmes probably got all his clothes seen to by professionals, but that wouldn't do for her or the boy. She'd have to see if she could persuade Himself to lash out on some cheap appliances, then she could take care of all the laundry and organise the dry-cleaning for Mycroft's suits; no work at all, if it was only the three of them.

Making her way back into the kitchen, Kit sat at the old scrubbed table and wrote out two inventories. One was a list of kitchen things she'd need, bowls and roasting tins and the like. The other was longer and covered the stocking of the pantry as well as fresh consumables. Mycroft had asked her to make a list of anything she needed or wanted when he'd popped into the kitchen on his way out to Whitehall.

"Just write everything down," he'd waved airily as he'd headed towards the ornate and stately front door. "I'll have it all taken care of ..." he called over his shoulder, vanishing for the day.

Thinking about the big house, the astonishing library and the expensive car, not to mention the costly booze in the freezer, Kitta realised that it probably wouldn't break the bank to ask him for a few basic necessities. At the bottom of the equipment list, she wrote _small washing machine_ , _clothes rack_ , _iron_. Sighing at the length of both lists, she knew she wasn't done yet. Gathering up the papers and her pen, Kit headed upstairs to look in Sherlock's bedroom and then her own.

For a man who kept no dishwashing liquid under the kitchen sink, she very much doubted Mycroft would have considered towels in the guest rooms either, or even spare linen for the beds. She'd just pop he head around the door of the Master bedroom too, just to see if there was anything in there that needed sorting out ...

Wiping the sweat away from his brow, Sherlock finally had the last of the dozen or so large tin trunks open, their assorted contents awaiting his judicial consideration. One was filled with all sorts of chains; heavy old iron links mixed up with much finer and better quality steel. Now why would anyone keep a large metal box full up with old bits of chain? Sherlock shook his head, determining at some point to test the breaking strength of some of these chains ... all he needed was a sufficiently heavy weight, a long drop and a stopwatch.

Another of the metal boxes held all manner of old tools; ancient saws, bent and rusted; long handled hammers and things made from wood with dangerous-looking steel blades lodged in the bottom which could be extruded out through an oblique slot in the bottom ... how fascinating. The box contained an old carpenter's kit. He wondered who in Mycroft's past might ever have had needed carpentry tools. The largest of all the tin trunks seemed filled with straw which he carefully pulled back to reveal what lay beneath.

At the dull clink of something hard and brittle, his fingers paused, not so much in fear that he might be cut on any sharp edges, but at the glimpse of the dusty glass he'd just seen. _A Petri dish_. Pulling more of the straw away, his digging fingers found more treasures; glass beakers of all sizes, test tubes lined up like soldiers in stiff cardboard containers; large and small glass funnels, heavy packets of paper wrapped specimen slides, pipettes and glass tubing and condensers. He sat back on his heels. There was enough glassware here for an entire laboratory and Sherlock knew without the slightest doubt that he _had_ to have one of his own. It was an imperative and therefore a foregone conclusion. _Finally_ , he would be able to work on some _real_ experiments rather than the childrens' chemistry sets he'd had before. Standing, he looked around for a suitable table or large horizontal space where he could lay every piece out in order to see the full extent of this incredible hoard.

But everything of appropriate height and size was covered in other stuff. He frowned, realising he'd have to work his way through a fair amount of detritus before he'd be able to set up his own lab. Pulling cobwebs out of his hair, he caught sight of the palm of his hand. It was black with dirt and oil and dust and whatever else might be up here. Looking down, he saw his legs were not any cleaner, with long streaks of grey and black along both of them. His knees were unspeakable. Nor were his shorts ... or his jumper as clean as they had been. Rationalising things, Sherlock realised he was probably black with grime everywhere. Pulling Kit's watch carefully from his pocket with one finger and a thumb so as not to get it dirty, he saw it was already after twenty-past ten. If he made his way downstairs now, he'd be there in plenty of time ... and then he remembered the lift.

A wide grin revealed white teeth in a fabulously dirty face.

Kit had found an old baking pan and a pretty mixing glass bowl that was really too deep for the purpose and which looked far too elegant to be a mixing bowl. But it was all she could find to for her scones, and so she'd used it. Fortunately, she'd had the forethought to stop and shop for a few extra things on the way back from her hotel, but she knew she'd have to go and do a proper shop either today or tomorrow. Thus the scones were out, cooling and she was in the process of pouring boiling water into a heated teapot when she heard light footsteps come through the door to the kitchen. Flicking her eyes up to the clock on the wall, Kit smiled. _Right on time_. _What a good lad_.

"Thought you might be going to be late ..." she stopped dead in her tracks as she turned to lay out a couple of tea plates and knives. She knew, theoretically, that this was the same child who launched himself out of here barely more than a couple of hours ago, she definitely knew that. But it was difficult to equate the former image with ... _this_.

"I had no idea there was a coal cellar here," she murmured, turning back to put some warm scones on a plate. "Or that you planned on spending two hours rolling around in it," she added, setting small dishes of jam and cream on the table. "Wash your hands, please." Sitting, she poured herself a cup of tea, then pouring a second one for the boy as he returned to his seat, which, she noted, would need cleaning before anyone else sat in it. Likely he would benefit from something warming inside; anyone who managed to get that mucky in such a short length of time had gone at it with real will. The child must be starving. She pushed the plate of scones closer to him. "Dig in," she smiled.

"It's like a magic kingdom in the attic," Sherlock announced, juggling a hot scone and getting flour on his jumper to accompany the underlying grime. "There's some really amazing stuff up there and I've only just started looking at things," he grinned, biting through a heaped compilation of jam and cream and scone.

"Then I suggest you make the most of your freedom while you can, young man," Kitta sipped her tea. "I expect Mr Mycroft will be arranging for you to start a new school soon, now you're living with him here."

Sherlock stilled, the idea of attending school clearly thought-provoking.

"Surely you didn't think you could stay at home all day and play in the attic?" she smiled again, gently.

"I've never been to school before," the boy sounded curiously wary, as if even the concept of mass education was foreign, requiring significant thought. "I had all my lessons at home with my parents."

Kit's heart sank. The last thing she'd wanted was to remind the child of what he'd lost. Summoning up a cheerful smile, she pushed the plate of scones closer to him by another inch or so. "Oh well," she said brightly, "I should think you'd be able to say exactly what kind of things you'd want your new school to have, in that case."

"Can I do that?" he sounded dubious. "Can I pick what I want to do at a school?"

"That's between you and Mycroft," she said carefully. "Though I can't see him bundling you off to some ordinary place. He's very particular, is that man."

"That might be okay, in that case," Sherlock helped himself to a second scone, meticulously spreading it with jam and piling it with cream. "If I can do science and reading and mathematics and medicine ... that might be okay."

"I'm not sure you can do all of those things at your age," Kit frowned and looked reflective. "Most medicine is taught and practiced in universities and hospitals, and you have to be eighteen and grown up before you're allowed to do it as it can be quite unpleasant at times, you see."

Chewing slowly, Sherlock considered this statement. Clearly, this wouldn't apply to him, though he could see where there might be problems with other people. And sometimes adults didn't like it when he was too smart. "I shall make a list of all the things I want to be able to do at school and give it to Mycroft tonight," he said, finally, still chewing. "You used to be a nurse, didn't you?"

Pouring another cup for herself, Kit looked down her nose at the grubby spectacle perched on the wooden chair opposite. She screwed one eye closed. "Still am," she said. "Still registered. I could whip your appendix out faster than you could blink," she grinned.

"Then if I can't do medicine at school, you could teach me about it here, couldn't you?" a pair of pale blue eyes held hers with an unblinking stare. "Do you have any books I could read about it?"

Mycroft was having her belongings, such as they were, brought up from Plymouth by tomorrow. All her old medical texts would be there. "Don't see why not," she said, thinking. "As long as Mr Mycroft doesn't object, of course. He might consider you a little too young for some of the things in my books."

Sherlock snorted. "I'm sure I've read about much _nastier_ things than what's in your books," he grinned, looking sideways at the last scone on the plate.

Inwardly pleased to have the boy eating, Kit sighed and stood. "Have that last one for me, would you?" she said, casually. "I hates wasting good food." Emptying out the teapot and rinsing it clean, she turned just as the last of the jam and cream were being piled onto the last bit of scone. Waiting until he was able to speak, Kitta folded her arms.

"You are going to need a thorough good scrubbing and some clean clothes before the day's out, you realise?"

"Got a change of stuff in a bag upstairs," Sherlock licked a cleanish finger cleaner. "But I haven't finished getting dirty yet."

"Right then," Kit felt on fairly solid ground here. "You go off and see what else you can possibly get any dirtier, while I see your bathroom is stocked with soap and things to make sure you does a proper job of it when you gets in the bath later," she said. "I'll see if Mr Mycroft needs anything in his room too, while I'm at it. Lunch is at one; don't be late."

"I don't eat lunch usually," Sherlock stood beside his chair looking at her, wonderingly.

"You will now," Kit lifted an eyebrow. "Even if it's just an apple."

"Okay!" There was a small flurry of dust and a sudden absence of child. Kitta smiled and shook her head. There would be interesting times ahead with _that_ young man, no doubt about it. Bringing a few supplies furnished by the supermarket, she headed back up to the boy's bedroom. The bedclothes had been roughly pulled straight, but it was the work of only a minute to make the thing properly, her hospital days making an untidy bed an impossible thing to bear. The bathroom was a little larger than the one in her own suite, but not by much. As she suspected, there was precious little in the way of bathroom necessities. She sighed; more for her growing shopping list. There had to be a linen cupboard around here somewhere, she thought, for towels and sheets, if nothing else.

The Master bedroom was at the far end of the same hallway as Sherlock's room. Knowing Mycroft was at work, Kitta didn't even pause before opening the heavy wooden door and stepping inside.

The room was surprisingly dark, but then she realised the curtains were still drawn closed, easily remedied. The place also felt on the stuffy side, as if the air in the room hadn't been freshened in some time; leaving the window open for a bit would soon sort that out.

It was only when Kit turned back to look at the rest of the room that she realised something in here was very wrong.


	7. in which strange things are discovered and there are difficult revelations.

 

It's not the dead-air smell in the room which leaves her with this odd and possibly irrational feeling, but an inexplicable impression that there is something very much wrong with this room.

It's not really the dust, though there does seem to be far more in here than she's seen almost anywhere else in the house, a faint sheen of grey everywhere. It's not the extremely old-fashioned nature of the furniture or the light fittings, though they seem archaic compared to downstairs. Nor is it the four-poster bed taking up most of the centre of the room, covered with old, old brocades and silk coverlets; even from a distance they were obviously museum pieces. It was more an overall feeling, as if a benign sense of neglect had settled in here years ago. Kit walked over to the bed, running her fingertips lightly across the delicate damask-silk covers. Though beautiful, they too were dust-ridden.

Frowning, she walked around examining the various bits and pieces of furniture without touching. Everything was the same; she could have sworn nobody had lived in this room in the last ten years, of that she was sure. Apart from the entrance into the room itself, there were several doors leading off. Opening one, she found herself in a very plain but functional bathroom. There was at least some indication of occupancy in here; soap and shampoo and a toothbrush, yet she could no sign of the usual gear men kept in such places; no razor or shaving kit or deodorant, though there were a couple of expensive-looking bottles of men's' cologne. Opening the nearest one, she sniffed, the fragrance indeed Mycroft's. But the rest of the room was entirely devoid of the usual clutter most people accumulated in this most intimate of places. There was a thin line of moss growing around the plughole of the bath.

Stepping back into the bedroom, she felt again the curious dead-air in the room; there was a feeling of abandonment in here that she simply couldn't explain. Heading towards the next door in the room, Kit found herself in an entirely different world, where everything was bright and clean and sparkled; Mycroft's dressing room. A large, squarish space, lined along three mirrored walls with his suits and shirts and coats. There was one entire section devoted to dark evening-wear; he must get invited out to a great many parties and posh social events, she realised. The fourth side, the wall with the door in it, also housed great long mahogany shelves. Sliding one open, Kit saw Mycroft ordered his socks according to material and season. Another shelf was home to a sedate carnival of ties, each one neatly rolled and placed inside its own little compartment. The lower shelves were all shoes, while there was a tall, narrow shelf devoted entirely to specimen woollens. Rubbing a particularly lovely grey one between her fingers, Kit recognised silk and cashmere. It must have cost a fortune. _How come_ , she wondered, that _this_ room was clearly well-used and important, whereas the bedroom itself was not? Who kept it spick and span?

There was an elegant mahogany island in the centre of the room, the top of which was home to an intricately carved wooden cabinet containing numerous tiny drawers. Opening one, Kit saw several sets of silver cufflinks. In another drawer, there were cufflinks of pearl and in another, gold. Tie pins and a range of strange-looking lapel-badges and several masonic rings inhabited the topmost section. Mycroft a Mason? Well, it would make sense, really, she thought. He seemed the type to be involved with all manner of strange goings-on. The third door in the bedroom was locked.

Walking back to the bed for a closer look at the carving on the posts, Kit realised to her horror that there was even dust on the _pillows_. No wonder this room felt odd and uninhabited; Mycroft might store his clothes here, but neither he nor anybody else had slept in that bed for a decade or her name wasn't Penderic. How very peculiar _._ If the man didn't sleep in his bed, then where _did_ he sleep? The not-eating thing was unusual, but after decades of nursing, Kitta was used to _unusual_ when it came to the human body. She could also understand a wealthy man, living alone in a huge big house with nothing more than expensive vodka in the freezer and the world's greatest collection of antique books; there were, after all, such things as millionaire eccentrics and recluses. But not to sleep in his own _bed?_ It was the strangest thing yet. Looking back at the carpet between the bed and the window, she saw her footprints; there were no other tracks on the dusty carpet save hers. Not only did Mycroft not sleep here, he only used the room for his clothes and very basic ablutions. She'd have to ensure the man's room was given a particularly good going over the next time the cleaning people came; terrible that it had been left to get into such a state. There would, no doubt, be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of it.

Heading up the broad staircase to the floor that held her quarters, Kit opened the main door to her suite and marvelled again at the beauty of the décor and the elegance of the architecture; it was such a handsome house. Entering the bedroom, past her luggage resting on the ottoman at the bottom of the bed, she walked into the gloriously Victorian bathroom, still with the chain-pulled lavatory. Everything was meticulously tiled in sea-green and ivory-white, with tiny little black tiles outlining stylised waves all the way around the room. The sink was a shiny porcelain, the same ivory as the wall tiles, as was the toilet itself. Kit turned on the hot tap to check it ran properly; it did. The floor was lovingly tiled in darker green and black while a long, emerald-cut mirror hung on a brass chain from the wall above the sink and an archaic shower system clung to the wall beside the free-standing claw-footed bath. Extravagantly engraved panels of green glass could be swung in to surround the bath itself to stop the floor from being flooded each time the shower was used. Compared to the house itself, this bathroom was relatively new, having been added more than a couple of hundred years after the original construction.

But there were no towels and no soap, nor did the place feel as if anyone had used it for some time, not unpleasant, just ... unused. Kit pulled the handle of the loo, wondering if the thing even worked. It did. Perfectly, and in comparative silence. Well, that was one good thing, at any rate. Placing soap by the sink, Kitta resolved to go and hunt down some towels and inventory the linen situation. If things were as bad as she was starting to imagine they might be, then she was going to have to start a third shopping list. There had been nothing in any of the cupboards downstairs, everything there perfectly clean and perfectly empty. Back in the bedroom, after unzipping her large suitcase which she'd brought with her from the hotel, Kit fished out her toilet-bag and dropped it into the sink basin for now; she'd sort herself out later. Nodding, Kitta walked back through the suite of rooms, hers now, and set out to locate the linen store.

At approximately the same time that Kit was admiring the tiles in her own private bathroom, Mycroft was also in a bathroom, though this one was a rather more communal affair in an unremarkable building in Whitehall, with plain white tiles and a row of small sinks along one wall. He was not alone.

"How long did you imagine we'd permit this little _liaison_ of yours to continue?" he asked, somewhat rhetorically, an emotionless tone to his words.

The question was addressed to a man in his thirties leaning over one of the sinks, his head bowed and dripping from where he'd dashed a handful of cold water not seconds earlier to try and combat his queasiness following Mycroft Holmes' initial revelation.

"I love Karen," the man whispered, his head still lowered. "I'd die for her."

"You might think both those things, yet you'd be wrong," Mycroft folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. The place was lit with fluorescents, as it was an internal and windowless room, known as something of an informal meeting place. Mycroft had turned the key in the lock as he'd followed his prey inside. "The woman you believe to be Karen Redhill from Sevenoaks is in fact one Irina Bortzov, youngest daughter of Colonel Karim Bortzov, one of Chemenko's hardliners from the Soviet Foreign Intelligence Service," he spoke slowly and clearly so that both the words and the meaning behind them might have chance to sink in. "I very much doubt the woman has ever set foot in Kent, let alone ever worked in the, ah ..." he paused, thoughtful for a moment, removing a small notebook from inside his jacket. "The _Greenfield Investment and Assurance Company_ ," he said, scanning a particular page. "The place exists, of course, but they've never heard of the lady."

The man at the sink straightened slowly, his body apparently unwilling to admit there might be truth in what he was being told even as his mind accepted that there probably was.

"I've known Karen for over a year," Martin Olam shut his eyes tight and shook his head from side to side. "We've been living together for the last three months, for god's sake; we're planning to marry after Christmas."

"Ms Bortzov became resident in Britain four days before you and she met," Mycroft looked weary. This was the part of his current work that he disliked the most. Give him horribly complex cryptographic problems any day. "It is likely she was sent to track you with a view to establishing some form of personal association as soon as you were promoted to Chief Communications Officer for the Ministry of Defence," it was Mycroft's turn to shake his head. "You've been played, Martin," he said, softly. "She has to be sent back to Moscow."

"But she's pregnant!" Olam's voice cracked as he turned, hands outstretched and pleading. "She had one of those new ultrasound scan things last week," he paused, his words fading, realising that had probably been the thing that tipped the scales against the relationship. "You can't make her leave," he pleaded. "Even if she is the daughter of Russian military, she's left all that behind her now, I know it," Martin was on the edge of tears. "She's my life; don't make her leave me ... I _beg_ you ..."

Closing his eyes momentarily, Mycroft looked with pity at the man who seemed on the verge of falling apart. There was nothing he could do to help. That Olam was being given any advance notice at all was only because Mycroft had insisted the man should know what was happening and why. Perhaps it would have been kinder to simply have the woman disappear, leaving a note to explain. You never really knew how people would react to these things, and Martin Olam, despite the unfortunate liaison with the woman who was clearly working for the Soviet intelligence forces, was still a very useful and valuable individual to have in the MoD.

"Ms Bortzov is being picked up as we speak, Martin," Mycroft kept the words as gentle as he possibly could. "The decision has already been made. She will be in Russia by tonight."

"Then go away and leave me alone," his voice hoarse, Olam turned back to lean over the sink behind him, as if he might be ill. "Go away and do whatever it is you bastards in MI5 or MI6 do to destroy people's lives."

Sighing inwardly, Mycroft walked to the door. "It's for the best, Martin," he said. "For everyone involved."

"Not for me or my child," Olam muttered brokenly, leaning his forehead against the chill glass of the mirror above the sink. "Just go ... fuck off and leave me alone."

Unlocking the door, Mycroft left the man grieving for his broken heart and dreams of family. The decision about the woman had not been his; his involvement simply... _convenient_ for those who had decided this outcome days ago. This kind of operation was not the type of work for which Mycroft felt himself best suited, and yet it was the kind of work in which he was becoming more and more involved. He would need to do something about that. But in the meantime, he had done what he could to ease Olam's situation, not that it was all that much. Mycroft's expression was sour; he disliked these things that reminded him of his own lost humanity, the things that took him away from the cool intellectualism of the convoluted political game, this ... _legwork_ he could do without. He waited for the lift to take him back up to his usual floor, returning him to the dim comfort of his own private office where there were no fragile emotions or human despair.

Kit despaired. She stood at the top of the stairs with her hands on her hips and blew a strand of hair away from her face. She'd been around all the passages on the ground floor; glimpses of the reception rooms tantalising to say the least, the contents of which would have kept her downstairs had she not been a woman with a mission. Other than the cupboards in and around the kitchen and pantry area, there was no storage that might conceivably be home to the stockpile of linens she just knew had to be in this house _somewhere_. She had also opened every door on the first floor, home to the Master suite and Sherlock's rooms. There was a third small suite opposite Sherlock's but it was even emptier and less inviting than the boy's. There were several smaller bedrooms on the other side of the house on the same floor, but it looked very much as if nobody had lived in them for a long time either, though at least all these rooms had been regularly cleaned. Only Mycroft's suite seemed untouched by anything except time.

Kit reasoned therefore, that there must either be some sort of linen store on the middle floor of the house, the one that held her own quarters and where she stood now, or on the floor above, where the servants' rooms would have been. The main landing where she stood was at the centre of a branching passage, left and right. To the left was her apartment and further down on the same side, she had found what looked to have been home to an office of some description at one time. There was a single door opposite her own which led into a long narrow room with a smoothly polished wooden floor and large windows facing onto tall houses at the rear of the house. Kit had heard of dancing rooms before, but she'd never seen one. This was where the young people of the house would have had their dancing lessons every day.

But there was still no stash of towels or bedsheets. It was becoming annoying. Back to the central landing, Kit took the right-hand branch of the passage, opening each door as she passed, even that of the lift, just in case she missed anything. A small sitting-room, with white dust-sheets cast over everything; another small room, which looked like it might have been a sewing room, possibly where an earlier Housekeeper would have kept her mending supplies. This looked promising and Kitta searched for the nearest door which might be convenient to this one, especially as there were only two more doors at this end of the passage. The one directly across the passage opened up into what might have been a children's school room; an old blackboard perched on a rickety easel above bare wooden boards. The rest of the room empty and clearly unused.

There was one more unopened door on this floor that Kit could see, and it was right at the very end of the passage, adjacent to the mending-room. If there was going to be any store of linens on this floor, then this would have to be the door to the cupboard. Grasping the round brass handle, she turned it gently, hardly daring to hope that she might be greeted with a decent store of towels and sheets. Nor was she. There was no cupboard.

What there was in fact, was an entire _room_.

A very decent-sized space, at least sixteen feet square, there was a small curtained window high up on the wall opposite the door, and a connecting doorway into the mending room beyond; odd that she hadn't noticed it from the other side. The rest of the space was made up entirely of broad and sturdily constructed shelves, from floor to ceiling, each one burdened with bulky, cotton-wrapped bundles. A long table stood in the middle of the room, adorned with a couple of old woven washing baskets, still sound, though the withies were dark and stiff with age. A wide, soft-bristled broom stood in the corner, next to an enormous dustpan. There was also a large, galvanised tin jar on the table. Lifting the tarnished cover, Kitta saw the remains of a substantial bunch of fresh lavender, the desiccated blooms still attached to some of the dried stalks. These would have been laid between the fresh laundry to keep the linen sweet-smelling and free of moths.

Turning to explore some of the vast collection in the room, Kitta uncovered the contents of the nearest eye-level shelf. Six, carefully pressed, heavy white sheets appeared from beneath their wrapper and she lifted one out, unfolding it as she stepped back., the sheet was plain except for some slight yellowing at the edges and the beautiful and deeply embroidered panel of cornflower blues all the way across the top. Clearly, this was a piece of linen that would have belonged to the owners of the house, not one of the servants. Folding the fabric between her fingers, Kit felt the lasting quality of the thing; the luxuriant silkiness of the costly mercerised linen still evident even after all the time it must have sat in here, unnoticed and unused.

Turning a practiced eye around the rest of the room, she estimated there was enough linens and bedding in here for an entire household. On the opposite side of the room beneath the window were wider shelves but fewer of them, their contents thicker beneath the cotton covers. Pulling one away, Kit was relieved to see a selection of heavy towels, cream with age, each hand-embroidered and of superb quality; nothing but the finest Egyptian cotton in here. Sniffing, Kit was sure she could still detect the faintest air of lavender. But all of this would need washing again before it could be used. Still, at least there was more bedding here than might ever be needed between just the three of them, she realised. If only she had access to washing materials and a strong hanging-line, she could have got the first sheets washed and dried before the day was out, but it would have to wait for another day now, as she had best be off to get lunch ready for her and the boy.

Sherlock had not the slightest interest in anything at the moment, except the contents of the two old tea-chests he'd managed to open. At first he was only going to open the top one, until he'd seen what was inside almost as soon as he'd pried off the tacked-down top with the aid of one of the long-handled hammers he'd found earlier.

Carefully and thoroughly packed with old wood-shavings, he'd raked gently across the surface until he'd touched something small and knobbly. Digging a little deeper, his questing fingers pulled out a small but perfectly painted model soldier. Decorated with all the red and gold of the Grenadier regiments, the model soldier was a near-perfect replica of the real-life version, though he noticed the uniform was antiquated in style and embellishment. This was an old collection, he realised. It might have been in the box for years and _years_. Before his mind had consciously kicked in, his hands were already sinking into the disintegrating wood packing, pulling out handfuls of the painstakingly painted little soldiers, each one, Sherlock noted with utter delight, was a little different from its fellows. Some carried guns ... _muskets_ ... he squinted at the impossibly fine detail. Others shouldered sabres or pikes; some were fully uniformed while others carried their shakos under their arms or even at arm's length by their side. Even their facial expressions seemed different, though without a magnifying glass, he wasn't certain. Whoever painted these not only had the patience of a saint, but also an incredible eye for detail. It must have taken forever to do.

But there was nowhere for him to put them all, and Sherlock's urgent desire to see the entire collection out in all its glory was an almost tangible thing. All else was put aside, all his other desires fading beneath the intensity of this one, overwhelming need. There had to be somewhere he could put this ... army.

As Sherlock's fertile mind flew through half-a-dozen possibilities, he felt the hard lump of Kit's watch in his pocket. Not having the slightest clue how long he'd been at this, Sherlock bit his lip and pulled the old Timex into view. It was already fifteen minutes past one: he froze. His explorations could not _possibly_ be constrained now, not with so much more that he needed to see. Leaving everything where it was, he turned and dashed for the attic doorway, leaping across the balcony and down to the lift-doorway without taking a breath. Every second the lift took to get him downstairs was agony and he closed his eyes, wishing it faster. As soon as the doors opened, he tore around to the kitchen, where Kit was just setting out a dish of macaroni-cheese, criss-crossed with bacon strips. Perhaps not the most elegant of meals, but quick and filling.

"Wash your hands," she didn't even bother to look to see if Sherlock had managed to get himself any filthier; she didn't think it was possible, based on what she'd seen a few of hours before. Laying out two dinner-plates and knives and forks, Kit looked up as the boy seated himself.

She'd been mistaken. It certainly _had_ been possibly for the child to get even dirtier, as his current state amply demonstrated. Even his hair was grey and thick with dust.

"Having fun up there, are we?" she asked mildly, dishing up a moderate-sized plateful and adding several rashers of bacon. A glass of milk was pushed towards him.

Sherlock's grin was answer enough, especially as he picked up some bacon in his semi-clean fingers and crunched it with every evidence of enjoyment.

"S' _great_ ," he mumbled around a forkful of the macaroni. "There's so much _stuff_."

"Nice, clean stuff, no doubt?"

Sherlock looked down at his clothes, shrugging. "It's only dirt."

"Which seems to be as attracted to you as iron is to a magnet," Kit observed tartly. "Thank goodness I remembered to buy some shampoo and soap on the way back here this morning. You're going to need a thorough scrubbing, young man."

"Got an army to unpack," Sherlock shook his head. "No time for a bath," he paused, frowning. "Though I don't know where to put them all," he said, the frown deepening. "Do you think Mycroft would mind if I used the big table in the Dining room?"

"I think you'd best stay away from any of the clean areas until you're presentable again," Kit looked serious, then paused as she remembered the dancing room.

"What?" Sherlock stopped eating. "You've thought of something important for me to know," he said. "What is it?"

Pursing her mouth in consideration, Kitta picked up her teacup and sipped the steaming liquid. "There's a big room across the hallway from my rooms," she said. "Great long stretch of a place it is," she added. "Got a nice smooth wooden floor."

 _A whole room for his army?_ Sherlock's eyes went wide at the thought of it. He stared at Kit until she laughed.

"I'm sure Mr Mycroft wouldn't mind you using the room for your playing," she said. "So if you want to bring some toys ..."

_Toys?_

"... down from the attic, I don't doubt the room would be as good a place to keep them as anywhere else. So when you've had your lunch, go and bring a few things down. I'll give the floor a bit of a clean and you can go and have a good hot bath while I do. You can play for a bit then before dinner. How does that sound?"

Perfect. It sounded _perfect_. Except he'd want to bring down more than a few of the _soldiers_ and playing with them before dinner wasn't going to be nearly long enough. "I need something to carry them down in," he said. "A bag or something."

"How about a big flat basket with a handle for carrying?" Kit remembered there was one on a shelf in the mending room.

A forkful of macaroni paused mid-air as Sherlock envisaged carrying the soldiers down to their new battleground. He nodded. _It would suffice._

"Right then," Kit ate her own meal. "Finish that plate and we can get your new playroom organised."

"War games room," he muttered. " _Not_ a playroom."

Kit smiled. Sherlock would be the match of his guardian soon enough, she reckoned. It would be fascinating to see the two of them together as adults. She could already imagine the arguments.

Sherlock seemed too focused on the picture in his head to think about finishing what was on his plate. He sat back with ill-concealed impatience written across his face.

"You just hold your horses," Kit poured herself another cup of tea. "Start working out where you're going to put everything and finish your lunch slowly," she suggested.

It was a good idea to begin planning, Sherlock admitted to himself, though he offered no such endorsement. He'd need to see the room Kit had in mind before he could get everything organised in his head, but she'd said it was a 'great long stretch of a place' which suggested there would be plenty of room for everything. He picked up his fork and lifted more of the pasta into his mouth.

The doorbell at the front of the house rang and Kit left to investigate. Sherlock considered making a break for it and heading back up to the attic before she could tell him to get cleaned up, but observing her obsession with cleanliness, he realised it would be a pyrrhic victory at best. He sighed and finished his lunch.

"It's Mycroft's people with all your stuff," Kit announced as she returned. "I've told them which room is yours, so come with me to get that basket and then see the room I have in mind, and then you can go and fetch some of that army you've found," she paused, thinking of the best way to do everything. "I'll clean the place up a bit while you have a good scrub, and then you can come and set out all your toy ... your _soldiers_ ," she finished. "Sound reasonable?"

Searching Kit's idea for anything that might possibly interfere with his plans, Sherlock nodded briefly; his skin was beginning to feel itchy with caked-on grime, if the truth was told, so a bit of a clean-up was probably merited.

"Good lad," Kitta smiled as she collected their empty plates and rinsed them in the sink. "Come away with me now and we'll get you that basket."

When Kit showed him the room, the sheer dimensions of the place escalated his plans by several magnitudes. Sherlock saw he could display all the pieces he'd found; it would be _amazing_. The basket was strong enough to hold a good selection of the painted soldiers he'd uncovered thus far, but he'd need several trips before he had enough to keep him occupied for the rest of the afternoon. He set off for the attic.

In the meantime, Kit swept the floor of the dancing room carefully with the soft broom she'd found in the linen store, keeping the dust down as much as possible and opening one of the tall windows to freshen the air in here which, like much of the building, needed freshening. Heading back down to the boy's room, she saw that Sherlock's belongings had been boxed up and left in piles on the floor in his bedroom. He could begin sorting it out later.

Heading into the bathroom, she found the plug for the bath and started the hot tap running. Happily, there was no problem with either water-pressure or the quantity of hot water available. Leaving the shampoo and the soap and her own nail brush and face-flannel by the bath, as well as a couple of well-shaken towels hung over rails on the wall, she waited until Sherlock reappeared with a heavily loaded basket. By the looks of the small, careful piles on the wooden floor, this wasn't his first trip down from the attic.

"Away and have your bath and you can come back to this later," she waved him towards the stairs. "And mind now, that you scrub everything clean; if I see any dirty patches afterwards, then you'll come right back up and have another bath, am I understood?"

Frowning, but nodding, Sherlock relinquished his hold on the basket and headed for his room on the floor below.

" _Fingernails too_ ," she called downstairs as she heard his bedroom door close. She smiled, picking up one of the small figures that had so entranced the child. It was indeed exquisitely done. She wondered what Mycroft would make of the boy's plan to set out an army in the dancing room.

Mycroft had decided not to work to his usual late hour this evening having a reason, for once, to get home and see how things were developing in his absence. As soon as the afternoon began to fade into evening, he felt it perfectly acceptable to advise his driver he would walk the eight minutes home in the gathering dusk and that the car wouldn't be required until the following morning.

Fresh from his bath and feeling significantly lighter, though still damp, Sherlock had been inspected and pronounced sufficiently clean to continue with his army until dinner was ready. It was only after he had cleaned up and set out every one of the soldiers he'd thus far liberated from the attic that he realised he had to bring more of them down. _Had_ to. As long as he was careful and kept from getting dirty again, he was sure Kit wouldn't mind, and so he returned to the attic to bring down a few more basket's worth of precious cargo. He felt the nail rake through the skin of his leg just as he was leaning against the lower of the two packing crates; not a deep cut, but a long scratch, though it seemed to be bleeding rather a lot.

Kitta looked around as Sherlock entered the kitchen, her gaze falling immediately to the thick line of blood running down the boy's leg. "Sit," she said. "Lift it up here," she raised Sherlock's leg gently onto another chair at precisely the same moment that Mycroft chose to step into the room.

About to welcome the man home with a joke about nine year olds being intrepid explorers, she took one look at Mycroft's suddenly stricken expression and the words died unspoken.


	8. in which there are discussions and decisions of an important nature.

 

 _Blood_. It was the scent that brought him up short at first; he recognised it even from outside in the passage. As he crossed the threshold into the kitchen itself, Mycroft was faced with the sight of the boy's injury and the thin stream of bright red blood running down his leg. It was not something for which he'd prepared himself and the combination of sensory input, as well as the sudden awareness that Sherlock had been hurt, caught him utterly off-balance. Judging from the changing angles on Kit Penderic's face, his own expression must have reflected something of his inner turmoil. He instantly masked it beneath a genuine look of concern.

"What have you done?" he frowned, stepping forward and bending down in order to see the full extent of the damage. Now that he knew what to expect, controlling his reaction was simple; he'd walked too many battlefields in his time to have a little spot of blood upset his usual _sangfroid_.

Rinsing one of the fine tea-towels she'd unearthed from the linen room beneath the cold water tap and wringing the thing nearly dry; Kit pressed it firmly against the injured leg. "Keep that there and keep it still until I go and find my first-aid kit," she said, standing and turning to meet Mycroft's blue eyes. "It's nought but a scratch," she said, wiping her hands on a dry cloth. "He had a good bath before so there's no dirt to infect it," she added. "Though I'll just go and get some antiseptic and a plaster to stop it getting dirty overnight," she turned back to Sherlock who sat with his fingers pressing down on the damp cloth. "Stay still until I get back."

The instant Kit was out the door, Sherlock pulled back the towel to look and see exactly how injured he was and just how far he might be able to leverage the situation to his own personal advantage. The bleeding had all but stopped, though there was a spreading line of scarlet streaking across the damp material. The scratch itself was barely three inches long, though there was a satisfyingly deep bit right at the top. He was immediately curious about the kind of scars people might get from being stabbed by different nails. Sherlock made a mental note to investigate the notion in more detail at a later time, acknowledging he might have a little trouble locating an experimental leg.

"Does it hurt? Are you in pain?" worried, Mycroft sank down into the chair Kit had recently vacated, staring into Sherlock's face. Not in his house more than a day and already the child was hurt and bleeding. _Oh god, this was terrible_. He was going to be an appalling guardian, he should never have agreed to allow the boy to ...

"You have some _brilliant_ things up in the attic, you know," Sherlock blazed with enthusiasm as he dropped the damp material back onto his leg and ignored it, far more intent on sharing his adventures. "There's some _really_ amazing stuff up there, and I've had the _best_ time today finding all kinds of super interesting things, and Kit said you probably wouldn't mind if I brought down your soldiers to the dancing room to have a proper look at them as a whole army in one place and she said I couldn't use the dining room table, but the floor in the dancing room might be okay if you don't mind?" Pausing for breath, Sherlock remembered his wounded leg and attempted to look pathetic. If he'd had a paw, he would have lifted it up in the air.

Mycroft felt his mind whirl. Well used to managing the most labyrinthine of international relationship convolutions, he found himself completely at sea after a mere ten seconds of Sherlock's babble. Soldiers? _Dancing Room?_ The Dining table? Had the child hit his head as well as injured his leg?

Kit bustled back in, laying a small, zipped bag on the table, taking out a smaller packet of cotton wool, a tiny bottle of antiseptic and a packet of Elastoplast. Heading back to the sink, she washed her hands and damped a ball of cotton wool before soaking it in the pungent-smelling disinfectant. Lifting the towel away, she nodded in satisfaction at the minor wound which was completely clean and not even bleeding anymore. "This will likely sting a bit," she said, pressing the cotton gently onto the cut.

Sherlock made a brief face, but didn't complain when she laid his own finger on top and told him to hold the cotton in place while she found the right sized plaster.

Mycroft watched everything, still waiting to see if the child was likely to be in any significant distress at any point; there seemed no imminent sign of it. "Is he going to be alright?" he asked Kit as she lifted up a particularly long strip of the sticky plaster and opened the sterile packet. She paused, turning to look down into Mycroft's troubled face.

"Little scratch like that?" she smiled, shaking her head. "It'll be healed and he'll be picking the scab off inside three days," she added, laying the plaster expertly along the line of the small wound. "Don't you go getting yourself in a tizzy now," she rinsed her hands under the tap again, "T'is all part of children learning what not to do, are these little things," she waved Sherlock to drop his leg down onto the floor so she could take the chair for herself.

Jumping to his feet, evidently no worse for wear, Sherlock's face was at the same level of Mycroft, still seated. "So?" he urged. "May I?"

Frowning, Mycroft realised he was missing something. The unexpected near-panic he'd experienced at seeing Sherlock injured was slowly fading, but his thoughts were still far from calm. "May you what?" he was confused.

"May I _please_ bring out all the soldiers from the two cases and put them on the floor in the dancing room?" the child was holding his breath in desperation. To be refused permission would be intolerable.

Turning to Kit, Mycroft lifted his eyebrows and looked uncertain.

"This young man here has uncovered a cache of hidden treasure in the form of what seems to be an army of sorts," she explained. "He wants to lay them all out in the long room across the hall from me, in what used to be the dancing-lesson room," she added. "I'm sure he'd take very good care of them," she said. "You know how precious they must be, don't you, Sherlock?"

Nodding emphatically, Sherlock waited, hoping.

 _Soldiers?_ In the attic? Mycroft racked his memory. He had absolutely no idea what the boy was talking about ... unless.

"These would be in two wooden tea-chests, of this approximate size?" Mycroft pulled his hands apart sketching the dimensions of a cube.

Sherlock nodded hopefully; at least he'd not been refused outright.

Mycroft saw the chests' contents in his mind's eye and remembered the day they had come into his possession. It had been almost immediately following the declared peace after the American Revolutionary War in 1783. The powers-that-be had decided the British army needed re-inspiring after such an ignominious loss and that the average British soldier might benefit from a considerable smartening up. Several new ideas for uniforms had been mooted, one new firm of London hat makers and military outfitters led by a certain Mr Hawkes, going so far as to commission a large collection of tin models which were then adorned in a range of potential new designs. Hawkes had later been joined by Mr Gieves, their uniforms becoming quite the favourite of such eminents as Admiral Lord Nelson and Field Marshall, The Duke of Wellington. If his memory served him right, Mycroft recalled there had been over three-hundred models created and painstakingly painted in the very latest of military garb. There were even a number of battle-pieces and horses for the cavalry uniforms to create the appropriate ambiance. He had always intended for them to be dropped off at the National Army Museum, but clearly he had forgotten. They really were museum-pieces, but the profoundly yearning expression on the child's face reminded him for a moment of Martin Olam. He had not been able to help the other man, but at least he could give Sherlock what he wanted.

"Of course, you may," he met the boy's eyes. "But they are very old and most likely fragile after all this time, so be careful with them."

"Naturally," Sherlock had no idea why both Kit and Mycroft were worried, as if he were going to deliberately damage such wonderful things. But he was too excited to quibble about it.

"You have an hour before dinner," Kit called after Sherlock as the small whirlwind spun out of the kitchen. "I'm making a pot of tea," she announced to nobody in particular. "Want a cup?"

Totally unused to being in his own house at such an early hour, his thoughts even more disordered at having _people_ waiting for him, people who were not even his usual _kind_ of people, Mycroft simply sat captivated, and nodded.

"Good," Kitta sat down and fixed him with a steady gaze. "As there's a number of things I'd like to discuss with you before we go any further with this arrangement, if you don't mind."

From the tone in her voice, Mycroft suspected that perhaps not everything Kit wished to discuss might be considered auspicious. A small tingle of concern made itself known in his chest. If she was already changing her mind about the job, he knew he'd never find anyone else so perfect for the role. At all costs, he had to make her decide to stay; whatever she wanted, Mycroft was determined to see Kitta Penderic got it. He accepted the tea without demur and sat, waiting.

"There's a few things that need to change in this house," Kit sat, lifting her cup and blowing across the steaming liquid to cool it. "Things that won't do if you're planning to keep the boy here full time," she said, _apropos_ of nothing.

"Such as?" Mycroft's voice gave no hint as to his inner disquiet; today was not turning out to be the best of days for him.

Pushing two handwritten lists towards him across the table, Kit indicated he needed to read them both. "You've been living the bachelor's life for too long to consider this kind of thing, I think," she murmured, sipping her tea.

The lists, each written in a neat, no-nonsense script seemed to cover everything from arranging a regular milk delivery to having someone repair the washing lines in the rear courtyard. Mycroft blinked, He'd forgotten there even _was_ a courtyard attached to the house.

"It carries on the other side," Kit lifted her eyebrows until he flipped the paper over in his fingers. There were additional requirements here; _small washing machine_ ; _ironing board_ , _hoover_.

"But I pay a cleaning company to take care of all this," he raised his own eyebrows as a small frown developed between them. "There's no need for you to do any of this, I assure you."

"You've never had a child in this house, have you, Mycroft?" Kit's words were calm and unhurried as she regarded her tea. "Never had to deal with everyday mess and the normal, untidy needs of a young'un like Sherlock?" she paused. "Though I daresay I shouldn't be judging that laddie as entirely normal," she looked reflective. "He's got some mind on him has that boy."

Mycroft felt his tension ease. If all Kit wanted to do was stock up on things she'd need to take proper care of Sherlock, then the matter was easily resolved.

"I shall ensure you have all these things by tomorrow," he sat back holding the cup and saucer in his hands, reassured now that this seemed to be the extent of the matter. "You need but say what is required and it can be arranged," he added. "Money is no object in this instance and in fact I've already instructed my accountant to set up a housekeeping account with a Lloyd's card in your name which I'm sure will meet your needs; they have been my bank for quite some time ... _since 1765, to be precise_ ... to which you shall have immediate and unique access; you may purchase whatever you desire for either the house or Sherlock as you deem fit," Mycroft smiled, thinking he'd covered the most salient points.

"And about those cleaners," Kit paused again, as if assessing her words for probity. "To my mind, they've not been doing the best of jobs, if you want the truth," she said.

"As my Housekeeper, you are completely free to review all my existing arrangements in any manner you see fit," relief made him generous; there was no need for him to have been concerned in the least. Mycroft sipped his tea.

"Certainly they've not been doing any cleaning at all in your room that I could make out," Kit's voice didn't alter in the least. "Though your dressing room looks all neat as a pin," she added, finally turning her gaze to meet his own. "I have no idea why that might be, though."

_Kit had been in his bedroom?_

The immediate lie that prior to agreeing to become Sherlock's guardian, he had spent virtually every night at his club, seemed an obvious one to invoke. If he slept elsewhere, then it was hardly a wonder that his rooms seemed untenanted, that only his dressing room was regularly used. He was certain that Kit would accept his statement in its entirety and question the matter no further. However, it was also clear that he could not continue to use such an excuse now that he had responsibilities in the form of a nine year-old child. Mycroft knew that both Sherlock and Kit would expect him to come home on a more-or-less regular basis, therefore spending a night at the Diogenes would become the exception rather than the rule. Additionally, there was something about Kitta Penderic that made him mulishly unwilling to lie.

But how much truth dare he reveal? And, if revealed, how much would be believed?

"I have preferred in the past, that my rooms remain private," he began carefully. "I am somewhat particular in that respect."

"And I fully appreciate the need for privacy," Kitta nodded in complete agreement. "However, leaving your rooms in such a state, even if you're not actually using them, is neither particularly hygienic nor a good example to a young and impressionable child," she said. "Or did you imagine that Sherlock would never take it into his head to sneak into your bedroom for a bit of an explore?"

The thought had never actually crossed his mind, but having heard the notion mooted, it now seemed the most obvious thing in the world. He sighed. Perhaps not too much of the truth just yet, then.

"In the past, I have spent a great deal of time at my club; it seemed an easier way for me to manage my life," Mycroft smiled faintly. "Not wishing to involve strangers in my personal affects, I took the cleaning and maintenance of my dressing room upon myself," he blinked. "It seemed the most practical thing to do," he paused. "I am not, perhaps, the most normal of men, Miss Penderic. You should know this from the outset."

Kitta laughed, patting him benignly on the arm. "I have no real understanding of what a normal man might be like to share a house with," she grinned. "But I would take it as a mark of trust if you would allow me to look after your private living quarters," she said. "Nobody else need know anything about your comings and goings, but at least then you know you have somewhere that's liveable if you need it to be."

Mycroft experienced a curious feeling of comfort, as if, for a brief moment, he had a connection to someone beyond himself. It was a uniquely warming sensation. After a moment, he nodded.

"If you are prepared to ... that is, if you would not consider it to be too much of an imposition ...?"

"More than happy to help out," Kit poured more tea for them both. "As long as you don't mind buying me a hoover to get the job done."

Feeling in a rather more affable mood, Mycroft relaxed completely, waving a hand. "Unless you have a specific preference for anything," he said, picking up the lists. "I can have all of this taken care of for you tomorrow," he smiled more easily. "Is there anything else?"

Blowing on the fresh tea to cool it, Kit kept her eyes straight ahead as she brought up the final issue she wanted to discuss. "Only one other thing," she said, slowly.

"That being?" Mycroft linked his fingers together on the old kitchen table and smiled serenely.

Kit turned, her dark blue eyes, darker even than Mycroft's own, fixed on his face as if trying to record every last little detail.

"How old are you, Mycroft?" she asked, holding the cup between her hands. "Truthfully."

Too late, he saw he had been lulled into a false sense of security; that she had applied one of the oldest techniques in the book and he'd fallen for it without a qualm. He further realised that his hesitation in answering her question, though brief, was still entirely too long.

"You see," Kit frowned down into her teacup, "us old nurses used to be trained to look very closely at people's faces," she said. "You can tell a lot of what's going on by remembering people's faces."

"The portraits," Mycroft closed his eyes for a second. Kit had as good as told him she'd been all through the house. Apart from the big portrait of he and Granville Holmes in the library, there were more than half-a-dozen others scattered around the walls on the various floors. No doubt she'd seen them all. It had been so long since he'd had anyone in the house above the ground floor that he'd given the existence of the paintings absolutely no thought at all.

"Some of them paintings have got amazing details," Kitta nodded, almost to herself. "I remember reading once about Oliver Cromwell wanting his portrait to be true to himself, to show all his roughnesses," she sounded perfectly calm. "If those portraits were of the men in your family, I could understand there being a lot of similarity," she looked reflective. "But as a nurse, see, I know things about faces, especially things like moles and whatnot," she lifted her eyebrows, still staring down into her teacup. "Some things are hereditary, but facial moles ain't one of them," she added, turning to face him again. "Not three of them in the same place in every painting."

 _Damn_. _Damn his lack of foresight._

"If I told you that these were vanity paintings I had done of myself in a variety of historical costumes to satisfy the fanciful whim of a rich man, what would you think?" Mycroft felt he had at least to make _some_ effort to maintain his secrets.

"I'd say that you don't seem to be that sort of man, Mr Holmes," Kitta shook her head. "A person with that kind of vanity would have kept all the paintings on the ground floor so that people could see them, not hidden away in dark passageways at the top of the house where nobody ever goes. Nor would that kind of person be overly reluctant to have visitors to his very grand home, no, Mycroft," Kit looked at him in a very gentle way. "Apart from you having some very good quality clothes, I doubt you have any more vanity than do I."

Leaning forward and resting both forearms on the table, Mycroft pressed both palms to his mouth, exhaling through his fingers. "They teach you observation techniques in nursing, do they?"

"Not so much now as was used to," Kit looked peaceful. "We din't have so much technical equipment back then, see; only the basics, really. We learned to do a lot of diagnosis from the old standards; colour, breathing, movement, eyes ... it's a hard habit to break."

"Then ..." Mycroft sought the words. "How old do you imagine me to be?"

Kit considered her answer then screwed her left eye closed in estimation. "A damn sight older than a man has a right to be," she muttered. "That painting in the library has to be over a hundred years for a start," she lifted her thumb, counting. "Then there's that one in your own room of you leaning against the carved statue in Italy or somewhere," she lifted her index finger. "Even though you were blond in that one, it's not hard to see it's still you," she smiled archly. "Then there's that one at the far end of the first floor, where there's a group of men and you're on the far right of the painting," Kit added. "Took me a second or two to see you in there, but there's no mistaking your face once you know it," she said, lifting a third finger. "Then there's the small one hanging in a row with several other small portraits where you've got one of those old fashioned white wigs on your head and a bright red frock coat and white stockings," Kit looked puzzled. "Where was that one done? It looks important."

From her description, Mycroft realised it was most probably the one from Hampton Court in the late sixteen-eighties when Christopher Wren had been asked to outdo the grandeur of Louis le Vau at Versailles. There were such expanses of wall along those great baroque galleries, that everyone who was anyone were required to have themselves painted in order to fill the endless spaces. Of course, only the most regal-looking were actually hung on the walls of the royal palace. It had been to his advantage to remain unseen, though he'd kept the painting itself. Foolish of him, he realised.

"That one was painted in 1689 at the request of William of Orange," he held her gaze. "Or it still might be the affectation of a foolish man with more money than sense."

Blinking slowly, but revealing no sign of her feelings one way or the other, Kitta lifted another finger. "That's four of them so far," she nodded. "Then there's the one on the top floor with you in some very fancy uniform and medals ..."

 _The Russian portrait Sherlock had found so fascinating_. He nodded.

"... which makes five," Kit frowned. There had been at least one more, she was positive. Remembering, her face cleared. "And then there's that great big dark one, right at the far end of the Dining Room." It had almost hidden by long curtains, but Kit had still known it was Mycroft.

He was impressed. In the house for less than a day and already Kitta Penderic felt able to confront him with such information, even though there were three other paintings she'd not yet discovered. Mycroft looked carefully into her face. He had some little facility with hypnosis and the thought crossed his mind that he might attempt to have her forget the entire experience. But it might not work, especially not on the strong-minded and the more he got to know this woman, the more he realised just how fortunate he'd been to make her acquaintance.

 _Dare he?_ Dare he, after all these years, offer his trust to a woman he barely knew, to a person who might then run screaming from the house. The image of Kit running anywhere screaming was so alien that it almost made him smile.

"You ask me for a truth you won't believe," he said, finally. "You already suspect that something's ... strange, and now you want me to confirm your suspicions ... for what purpose?" He was curious. _What would she do if he told her everything?_

"I likes to know where I stand," Kitta sipped her tea and smiled. "I already know enough about you not to be too worried by whatever you might say, but I'd always prefer to have the truth of the matter rather than make bad guesses."

He had known Kit Penderic for less than a full day ... _it was too dangerous_.

There was a sudden dryness in his throat that had nothing to do with thirst. He took a sip of hot tea and swallowed hard. He'd never shared his secret with another person; not Granville, nor any of the Holmes; not a single living soul in almost two thousand years. The only one who knew of his physical status was the person who had caused it. There was absolutely no _possible_ way he could blurt it out now, sitting at his kitchen table as if he were calmly discussing the weather.

"I told you I was not the most normal of men," he began, thankful for once that he no longer possessed a heartbeat. "That might have been a little understated," he added dryly, pausing as he hunted for the best words. He had never constructed these particular sentences in his entire long existence; _it was_ _hard_ , even for him. "It may be ..." he began, lifting his eyes to Kit's across the table, knowing that he dare not stop now. He swallowed convulsively again, inexplicably panicked.

Reaching across the table, Kit took his hand in her soft palm, the warmth of her skin seeming to sink into his endless detachment. "Whatever you are, Mycroft Holmes, you're a good man," she squeezed his fingers in her own. "You've taken on the care of a child when you could easily have walked away, and then you decided to take on someone like me when you could have sent the laddie off to some far-off school," she added. "To do one of those things might be considered thoughtful, to do both of them is nothing less than caring, and I don't bother what nobody else might say, not even you," she smiled, supportively. "I cannot think of you as a bad person, no matter what."

 _Such incredible faith_. He felt himself taking a deep breath. _It was now or never_.

"I ... am a lot older than I look," he held her gaze with his own. He took another deep breath, exhaling slowly. "I don't seem to be in the mood to die."

Kitta nodded, matter-of-factly, as if he'd just mentioned the need for a new carpet in the entrance hall. "Thought it might be something like that," she pursed her lips. "There had to be a logical explanation that joins up all the dots, as it were," she nodded again. "So when was you born?" she looked thoughtful. "Was it in this Isca place on the Exe?"

Stunned beyond measure at her incomprehensible composure, Mycroft felt himself beginning to gape. He corrected the issue and sat up straighter. "I've just told you I'm immortal and you want to know if I was born in Devon?"

"Been nagging at me since last night," Kitta got up to put the kettle on again. "I couldn't remember any such place, and I know there had to be a proper explanation."

"And the fact that I haven't died in hundreds of years doesn't worry you in the _least?_ " Mycroft frowned as he attempted to rationalise Kit's utter lack of astonishment.

She laughed at his discomposure. "Anyone would think you wanted me to be shocked," she grinned as she put fresh tea leaves in the pot. "I already told'ee us old nurses don't shock easy," she laughed again. "Now, if you told me you've had fifteen wives and they're all buried under the courtyard, I might be a bit concerned, but it's plain to see you've never been married, so I don't 'spect there's much else you can add that might make me lose any sleep at night."

 _Oh but Kitta Penderic, oh yes there is_ , and he knew he had to give her the worst; she had to make up her mind to stay only if she knew everything. "People like me have been given a variety of names in different cultures," he said, slowly. "Not all of them terribly complimentary."

"Oh?" Kit sat down, pouring them both fresh cups of tea. "Such as?"

_Onwards and upwards, Mycroft._

"In some South American cultures, they use the term _Chupacabre_ ," he said, watching for the slightest hint of revulsion or fear in Kit's face. "In the Balkans, the name _Lampir_ is perhaps more common, though in most places, I might simply be known as ..." he inhaled sharply through his nose. "Undead," he finished, softly.

"Anyone who drinks tea the way you do, or who knows the right end of a decent bottle of scotch can't be all bad, I says," Kit narrowed her eyes. "Though you might at least pretend to use your bath every once in a while," she said. "The moss is a bit of a giveaway," she paused, thinking. "So what do you call yourself?"

"Sorry?" Mycroft found it all a little hard to take in. He was scandalised at Kit's lack of alarm. He could be the worst and most unspeakable of monsters for all she knew.

"What name do you give yourself?" she looked at him as if he were being particularly dense.

_What name did he give himself?_

"I have never considered myself to be anything other than who I am," Mycroft realised he was floundering, the ground beneath his feet turning into so much quicksand.

"Then nor shall I," Kitta sighed and sat back in her chair. "This explains why you can't eat regular food, I suppose."

"It does," Mycroft nodded. "As well as my need for ... certain, ah, _infusions_ and other foibles such as staying out of the noonday sun."

"Burns you to a crisp, I'spect, does it?" Kit raised her eyebrows, interested.

"Sends me to sleep, actually," Mycroft wondered if he were becoming mildly hysterical; the desire to laugh was almost overwhelming.

"So," Kit folded her arms, staring at him assessingly. "A man what doesn't die, but who likes tea and pricy spirits and who dresses nice and works in Whitehall," she paused as her expression turned speculative. "You work with other strange undeady folk in them old buildings?"

"No," he felt a disbelieving smile curl the corner of his mouth. "Just the usual strange undeady Civil Servants," he paused, considering. "Though now you mention it, several of my colleagues are definitely on the odd side; I had simply assumed they were spies."

As if making up her mind, Kit unfolded her arms and held out her right hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mycroft Holmes," she said.

Holding her warm fingers inside his own, Mycroft realised this was the beginning of a new adventure. Now that he might consider Kit a genuine _confidant_ , so much of his existence could be easier, especially with Sherlock to consider.

"And you too, Miss Penderic," his relief entirely substantiated this time. "Is there anything else you wanted to know, while we're both in such a forthcoming mood?"

Regarding him broodingly, Kit nodded slowly.

_Dear god. What now?_

"Sherlock's got to go to school," she said. "And I don't think he's going to like it much."

"School?"

"And you need to be around the house to give the boy some attention; play with him and those soldiers, for example."

" _Play?_ " Mycroft felt his head spin.

In the space of twenty minutes, his entire life, which had up to then, been nicely quiet and well within his control for two millennia, was now thrown to the four winds. It was enough to drive a sane man mad.

"I have no idea about any of this," he felt his eyes widen as the borders of the unknown closed in around him.

"Thought as much," Kit smiled, triumphantly, bringing out another sheet of paper.


	9. in which expectations are met in one way or another

 

It was the fourth time the doorbell had rung in the space of a single hour and Kit, quite honestly, didn't know whether to stay and supervise the men setting up the new laundry, the woman installing multiple electrical sockets in the kitchen, storeroom and pantry, or the two young people attempting to stuff the entire contents of Selfridges' food hall into the refrigerator. Assuming everyone already inside the house knew approximately what they were supposed to be doing, she sighed and answered the bell's summons, opening the glorious inner stained-glass door in the entrance hall before reaching the solid and very substantial oak outer portal.

There was yet another white delivery van drawn in close to the kerb, this one bearing the name of a very well-known small appliance manufacturer.

"Delivery for a Miss Penderic," the driver, complete in grey overalls came up with a large clipboard and a pen. "Sign here, Missus," he pointed helpfully to the spot. Kitta had absolutely no idea what this delivery might be, but it appeared Mycroft hadn't been joking when he'd said he'd arrange for everything on her extensive lists to be taken care of today. It seemed that no sooner had one van departed with its various wares or service-people, than another one would appear. It was almost as if there was some invisible orchestra conductor watching from on high, but of course, that wasn't possible.

Scribbling her name in the indicated place, Kit watched as the man wheeled a pile of stacked brown cardboard boxes carefully up the wide stone steps. "Where'd you want them, love?" he asked cheerfully. "Was told to deliver them and make sure you was happy with everything before I came away."

"What's in the boxes?" Kitta had no idea what to expect; apparently Mycroft was intent on purchasing half of London in order to ensure he met her requirements and kept her happy. It was very sweet of him and it made her smile.

"Got a couple of new-model irons," the delivery man checked the manifest on the clipboard. "Some general kitchen appliances; juicer, one of those fancy mixing contraptions and a coffee machine," he added. "There's also a nice big new microwave oven, and a posh toaster that'll do yer crumpets for you," he grinned. "Somebody win the pools?"

Shaking her head in disbelief, Kit opened the front door wide and beckoned him in, pointing down the passage towards the junction off to the kitchen. "Just put them all on the benchtops somewhere," she advised. "I'll get to them when I can; there's no need for you to wait, or you'll be here all afternoon. If there's a problem, you'll be sure to hear."

One of the nice young things who had helped to bring in boxes and boxes of food and other kitchen necessities from the Selfridges van smiled at her as she followed the latest delivery into the kitchen. "The 'fridge is filled with all the cold and perishable stuff, and we're stocking all the dried stores along with the tinned goods in that store-room that leads off from the room next door, that alright with you?"

"The only with the long stone shelves?" Kitta remembered it from her original explorations, was that only yesterday? Seemed like a week ago already; so much had happened since then. "Good idea; just put everything in there so I can see what I'm looking at, and I can sort my way through it all later," Kit waved the smiling young woman on her way. The somewhat old-fashioned phone in the main hallway rang. Taking a deep breath, Kit lifted the heavy receiver.

" _Holmes residence_ ," she thought that was probably the safest response at this stage.

"Aunt _Kit?_ " Jude, of course.

"Hello, my dear," she smiled as she pictured her nephew's frowning face. He did take on so. "Everything alright, is it?"

"I've just heard you're working for Mr Holmes?" the tone of his voice suggested this might not have been the most sensible of career-paths for her to take.

"Yes, lovey, just like you are," she smiled again. Jude was a very nice young man, but a bit strait-laced at times; she had no idea where it'd come from. Must be all this London-living that done it. "Mycroft's a very nice man and I can see why you work for him. I've agreed to be his housekeeper, at least for a while, and am going to take care of him and the boy, it seems."

" _Housekeeper?_ You call him _Mycroft?_ It's all a bit sudden, isn't it? What does he call you, Aunty Kit _?_ Mycroft Holmes wants you to be his _housekeeper?_ "

"Deary me," Kit laughed. "You'll give yer'sell a migraine if you don't take care," she chortled. "Anyone would think I'd done something wrong, and he calls me Miss Penderic when he's being all proper, but when the lad puts him in a spin he forgets, and that's when he calls me 'Kit'," she smiled. "He's a nice man, is Mycroft; you picked a good employer there, my boy."

"I only brought you over to cook dinner for Mr Holmes' new ward for the one evening," clearly Jude was 'taking on' despite Kit's advice. "I didn't mean for you to get stuck in a situation you couldn't get out of, Aunty," the poor man sounded quite upset. "Do you want me to have a word with him for you?"

"Now just you hold on a minute," Kit had to nip this silliness in the bud. "There's nothing going on here that I haven't decided completely for myself; me and Mr Holmes have done a great deal of talking things over since a couple of nights ago, and we both realised that he needed someone like me to help him through this tricky time while he and the boy are getting used to the situation, just as I needed a new place to live, and work that'd pay for it," she paused to catch her breath. "This seemed to be a perfect opportunity for the both of us, and so we're giving the arrangement a try, like; see if we can make a go of it before we decides on making it permanent."

"So ... this is definitely something _you_ want ... you've not been ... persuaded ... into the job?" Jude's voice still held an edge of uncertainty.

"Course it's something I want," Kit grinned down the phone. "You don't think I'd agree to anything like this if it din't suit me, do you?"

"I don't know, Aunty Kit; Mr Holmes can be a bit ... strange at times. He can be a little bit overwhelming."

Kit had to stop herself from laughing. Her nephew didn't know the half of it. "It suits us both at the moment, at any rate," she said. "We shall see how we go, but this house has a good feel to it, and I'm perfectly content to have a try at this; the laddie needs a bit more at the moment than just someone who pops in to cook his dinner, and I was here ... it seemed the thing to do, so you can rest easy, my lover. All is well here; thank you for being so thoughtful, but really, everything's just fine."

The doorbell rang again.

"Sorry, Jude, got to fly; A housekeeper's work is never done," she laughed again, replacing the phone into the receiver. It would be nice to be able to see him and his young wife on a more regular basis rather than only when she was up from Plymouth, though if she were going to be this busy all the time, then heaven knew when a meeting might be arranged.

Opening the big front door, she saw two men beside another van emblazoned with the name of a local roofing contractor. It had ladders on the top. Both men looked incredibly serious, almost ominously so.

"And what can I do to help you gentlemen?" Kit was curious; there had been nothing she could think of on any of her lists involving ladders or serious men in overalls.

"Come to fix up a few things at the back of the house for you," the speaker, though dressed in standard working garb, was clearly educated; his diction as sharp as crystal. He held up several coils of brand-new washing line, the movement causing the loosely-zipped neck of his overalls to gape wider. Kit saw the man was wearing a suit and tie underneath. What kind of workman wore a suit?

Casting her mind to the rear of Mycroft's house, Kit frowned. The only thing at the back would be the ... " _Oh_ ," she nodded. "You've come to sort out the courtyard for me? How wonderful," then she frowned; there was no way they'd be able to bring all those ladders through the house. "There's a rear gate into the courtyard from an external lane, I believe," she said. "But it's padlocked, and I don't have the key, I'm afraid."

"Not a problem, since I do," The man grinned suddenly as he pulled a very solid-looking brass key from his overall pocket. "If you care to let me in?"

"Then I wonder if I might see some sort of identification, if you don't mind, young man?" Kit smiled, but her left foot was already behind the door, ready to slam it closed if there was anything funny going on.

Pausing, then easing his shoulders, the man dug inside his jacket and pulled out a small black leather wallet. When he opened it, Kitta could see a tiny photo and a name. Beneath the name were the clearly printed letters _MI5_. "Just here to make sure Mr Holmes' security is up to scratch," the man spoke quietly. "Very sensible of you to check, though. My colleague will drive the van around the back, so if I might come through and unlock the courtyard door from the inside?"

Kit relaxed and moved her foot. "You're welcome to come through, but I warn you, the house is a bit of a zoo this morning; lots going on around here today." Opening the door wider, she beckoned him through. "I'm about to make tea for everyone, would you like a cup?"

"Not while we're on ... _er_ , perhaps not right now, thanks," the man smiled.

As the latest invader charted his way through to the rear of the house, the phone rang again, and Kit rolled her eyes. This was starting to feel as if someone was watching her, someone determined to run her off her feet.

" _Holmes residence_ ," she answered a little breathlessly.

"Are all those people I've sent to do your bidding becoming overly annoying yet?" Kit couldn't be positive, but it sounded as if Mycroft was being fractionally smug.

"Nothing that can't be handled," she smiled airily, lifting her eyebrows. "Though you're going to have to find another home for all those bottles of prize vodka you had stashed away in the freezer, I'm afraid," Kit bit her lip trying not to sound too amused.

" _What?_ " Mycroft's tone changed abruptly. "Don't tell me there's been any damage ... Those bottles were from a limited cellar!"

"No damage at all," Kit shook her head. "But there's been a couple of youngsters over here from that big fancy shop Selfridges, and they've shoehorned more food into the fridge that I ever thought possible, the freezer section too," she added. "I'm afraid your bottles of plonk din't stand a chance against such determination."

" _Hmm_ ," despite the lack of words, Kit had the distinct impression that _someone_ wasn't overly happy about his peace and quiet being disrupted. She grinned again; now he knew what she'd been going through all morning.

"I shall make additional arrangements ensuring both our respective requirements are met," he said, finally. "I'll send over another delivery when everyone else has left, if that's agreeable to you?"

"How will you know when everyone has left?" Kitta frowned. "Are you able to see this place from your office window?" she had an irrational impulse to look around. "I din't think you could bear the light in the middle of the day, so how can you be standing anywhere near a window?"

"In this day and age, Miss Penderic," the smugness was back. "One does not always require a direct line-of-sight in order to see directly," he announced, cryptically. He was also smiling; Kit could hear it in his voice. Cocky sod.

"Well, this place had been busier than Piccadilly Circus on a Saturday morning, but Sherlock has been up in the dancing room all day arranging those soldiers you told him he could play with; you'll have to go up and spend some time looking at them with him when you come home; he's put so much effort into it."

There was a slight pause. "I'll be home around the same time as yesterday, if that's acceptable to you?" Mycroft sounded almost uncertain, as if permission were needed to enter his own domain.

"T'is _your_ home, Mycroft," Kit understood so much more now since their conversation of the previous evening. "You must do what suits you; the boy and I will be here regardless. You just need to arrange part of your day so that when the both of you are awake at the same time, he has someone to discuss his adventures with," she paused. "Sherlock is already seeing you as a father figure, Mycroft, and you should know how important it is for him to do things with family."

There was a long pause at the other end of the conversation. "I'm not Sherlock's father, nor could I ever replace the man who was," he said, eventually. "I would not dream of attempting to be such a man as George Holmes ... he was a far better individual than I could ever hope to emulate," he added, quietly.

"And nor will Sherlock ask you to do such a thing," Kit cast around for the right way to explain. "But the fact is, and whether either of you realise it or not, you _are_ taking at least part of the role in his life that his father once took, and until the boy is stronger and old enough to stand alone, then you'll both have to find a way to work through this," Kit sighed. "Maybe you and the laddie need to talk about this before too long," she said. "So that you both understand each other's position."

"He's a nine-year-old boy, Kit," Mycroft sounded uncomfortable.

"He's a very intelligent person who _happens_ to be a nine-year old boy," she let the words hang in the air.

There was a ghost of a sigh on the phone line.

"I'll arrive at approximately the same time I did yesterday, in that case," Mycroft spoke slowly, as if he were only now beginning to realise what doing a good job of guardianship really meant. "Will that be enough time?"

"That's something between you and Sherlock to sort out, my dear," Kit saw that this was going to take a bit of working out between them. "One step at a time, but I think you're doing just fine, if you was worried."

"I'll bring some work home with me so I won't disturb you or Sherlock in case you haven't dined, and then, perhaps he might care to educate me in the art and science of his war games," Mycroft's tone was a little warmer.

"I'll be sure to let him know," Kit turned her head at the sound of a crash in the kitchen. Hopefully it would not be associated with Mycroft's stash of vodka. "I'll see you later," she farewelled him, ending the call.

Sherlock heard the phone ringing, had heard, in fact, all the comings and goings even two floors up; the wide staircase acting as an excellent echo-chamber, conducting the smallest of sounds. So far, there had been six strangers in the house, in addition to Kit and himself. He checked Kit's watch which he wore on his wrist today after she'd added another hole in the leather strap for his thinner arm. Six visitors in less than three hours was fairly impressive by anyone's reckoning; he recalled days and days at home with his parents when there had been no sound at all, not even the ringing of the phone. This was much more stimulating.

But more interesting still was the room in which he currently stood, hands on his thin hips as he looked all around him.

Kitta had told him this room would have been used for dancing lessons back when people had such things, and he could see how the long, thin floor space would be perfect for such a task. Whoever had laid the floorboards in here had done a wonderful job; there wasn't a single crack or raised nail that he'd been able to find, the boards themselves perfectly flat and polished very smooth, especially in the middle of the room, by the traverse of countless feet. Admittedly, the floor could do with a bit of a polish, but it wasn't overly dusty now that Kit had brushed it clean the day before; she'd promised to give it a proper cleaning as soon as she had the necessary implements and cleaning materials.

Not that Sherlock was remotely interested in any of that. Since yesterday, he'd managed to empty both of the wooden crates, bringing every single piece down, a basket at a time, so that he could set everything up in here to his satisfaction. The first tea-chest had been full of infantry soldiers, each one different in some way from his fellows; either in uniform or stance or equipment. The painted details were simply _incredible_ and he'd looked very carefully at the faces of each soldier before adding it to the growing crowd.

The contents of the second crate had been an even more exciting find; not only more soldiers, but these were from an entirely different regiment, with plumed golden helmets, dark regimental dress and sabres at their sides. There were also more than thirty fabulously caparisoned horses, with elaborate saddles and harnesses, each one waiting only for a suitable rider. In addition, there were a number of mobile artillery batteries with wheeled cannon that could be rolled into different positions. The whole ensemble simply crying out to be set up in a proper assault format, maybe even as opposing forces. Sherlock had hoped to be able to design battle tactics, but with this number of combatants, he could very well plan out entire _campaigns_. He sat on the floor, legs crossed, surrounded by his own private army. There was no time to lose; he wanted to lay out his first operational dispositions before Kit forced him to stop and eat something; hopefully all the visitors would keep her too busy to think about him. He got to work.

The various clanking and banging noises emanating from the old laundry had gone strangely quiet and Kit dared to poke her nose around the door to see what the two men had managed to do with all the boxes they'd brought in. The pictures on the _outside_ of the boxes had informed her that she was at least getting the washing machine she'd requested, but there had been a lot more containers than that and she was dying of curiosity.

The two big old butler's sinks were still there, and the old polished slate benchtops with their carved drainage channels were in the same places, but that was about all she recognised in the room itself. It was transformed.

It was _magnificent_.

The wall above the sinks had changed entirely; there were now three tall, narrow windows that hadn't been there the previous day, she'd have sworn to it, though the large pile of painted plywood stacked neatly in the middle of the floor might have had something to do with that. Who would have had the windows boarded over? Then, of course, she thought of Mycroft and understanding dawned. Bright sunlight, to a ... man ... like him, was something unwelcomed, something to be avoided at all costs. It was why he'd kept curtains closed in his bedroom all the time; he'd probably not wanted to be bothered by any stray glimpse of sun that might catch him unaware. This room now seemed so much larger with the additional light and she looked out through the old dusty glass to see that the courtyard door had indeed been opened and ladders were being brought in; she would go and have a look before they'd finished, she decided.

But the laundry, even though it still needed to be cleaned up, simply took her breath away. In her little place in Plymouth, she'd been used to an old boiler and a knackered, ancient twin-tub that barely spun any of the water out, what she saw was already like something out of one of them glossy Home and Garden magazines. Everything _shone_.

Gleaming white appliances; front-loading washing machine and an identical tumble-drier, high up for the easiest of access with cabinets beneath. Another shining white machine proved to be a drying cabinet with hanging lines inside. There were polished new brass taps above the sinks. And what wasn't shining or polished was decked out in robin's egg blue canvas; large, lined basket hampers for things awaiting washing; plenty of bench-top space of folded clothing. Kit looked up, her eye caught by slight movement; a suspended drying rack that might be lowered from the ceiling. There was everything that she'd asked for and far, far more. Mycroft must have simply arranged for someone from a laundry place to put an order together with everything they could think of.

The two men smiled when they saw her face.

"I'm making tea," she said, still entranced by all the sparkling white in the room. "How do you like yours?" Dreamlike, she noted their preferences, then headed through the open back door and across the courtyard to where the two workmen who were probably not workmen were busy attaching fine black wires high up beneath the eaves of the house.

"Don't forget my washing lines while you're up there," she called, just loud enough for them both to hear. "Three of them, please," she said. "All the way from one side to the other, with a couple of feet between each one, and do you want tea now?"

Back in the magical laundry, then through the Butler's pantry, where the electrician had finally finished her work, with more power-sockets installed than Kit had ever seen. "Tea?" she asked, dazed with all of this ... _this_.

The two young things from Selfridges insisted on making it for her and everyone else, so while she waited, Kit took a little wander into the old store room to be greeted by an awe-inspiring array of tinned and dried foods in artfully arranged large glass jars and labelled cartons. There was probably more food in here than a boy scout troop could eat their way through in a month she realised, casting her eyes over the jars and tins and bags and boxes. She'd never seen so many provisions in all her years.

Before she'd realised it, a thick pad of paper was laid gently in front of her while she was sitting at the kitchen table drinking her – very nicely made – tea. Frowning down at the fine details, Kit realised she was looking at a printed weekly shopping list, with lots and lots of tiny little boxes and with empty lines on the bottom for special requirements.

"All you need do from now on is to tick any of the boxes for the goods you want, fax or phone it through to the main store in Oxford Street before four o'clock on any day, and one of our delivery people will have the goods to you by that evening," the young man from Selfridges smiled, clearly delighted with the job he and his companion had just completed.

Kit was glad she was sitting down; it was all a bit much to take in and she could almost _feel_ Mycroft's grin all the way from his Whitehall office. Apparently, now that she'd been taken into the Mycroft's confidence, as it were, he felt able to show off a bit.

She lifted her eyebrows and inhaled slowly and deeply, a half-smile on her face. Whatever else her life was going to be in this house, she doubted it would be boring. _Speaking of which_ ... she checked the kitchen clock. After one, and no sign of the young scamp ; really, she needed a walkie-talkie.

Sherlock was sprawled on his belly arranging a group of horses into a convincing cavalry charge formation when he heard footsteps on the hard floor behind him. Kit's obviously.

"Too busy to eat right now," he murmured, adjusting the nearest horse an inch to the left.

A small tray was lowered to the floor beside him, containing a plate with two chicken and tomato sandwiches, a chocolate biscuit and a glass of cold milk.

"I'll be up to collect the empties in half-an-hour," Kit announced, walking back to the door. "If it's not all gone, I'm closing this room until after you've had your dinner."

Sherlock made a face. He had no doubt Kit would do precisely as she said. Unwilling to stop for anything and without moving his eyes, his fingers reached over for a sandwich. He bit into the soft bread and moved the horse another inch.

By the time Mycroft unlocked the heavy front door and walked in after six, there was a quiet warmth about the house noticeable from the moment he stepped inside. Faint sounds of music came from the kitchen as he walked down the wide passageway, a smile curving his mouth as he heard soft chatter come from up ahead. It was as if he had suddenly discovered a family and though it felt odd, it also felt undeniably ... satisfying.

Kit had found an old radio from somewhere, he saw, and had it tuned to one of the capitol's classical stations currently airing a Bach chamber piece he hadn't heard in a very long time. Both she and Sherlock were seated at the kitchen table dining on what appeared to be roast beef; the rich scent was unmistakable.

"Good evening Kit, evening Sherlock," he announced himself, turning to admire the final piece of _arrangement_ he'd made upon hearing of his cherished vodka's unseemly eviction from its frosty home. A refrigerator of epic proportions now took pride of place when the previous one had rested only hours before. It was big and ostentatious and a gleaming silvery steel.

Kit wasn't sure she liked it; it was far too industrial-looking for her tastes, but there you were. At least it was sufficiently massive to hold everything, including the man's precious bottles.

Mycroft's smile was only _marginally_ on the superior side. "Is everything to your satisfaction?" he liberated one of the newly chilled bottles from the freezer compartment and poured himself a small shot glass of the icy clear spirit. Sniffing in appreciation, he sipped and almost visibly shuddered as the burn of the highly-proofed alcohol did its work.

"Everything, apart from this great monster of a beast," Kit looked sideways at the new fridge, "is absolutely marvellous," she said. "You were true to your word and everything on my lists has been either delivered, fixed, installed, or all three," she added, folding her arms and sounding very down-to-earth about the whole event. "It's been an amazing day, and that's the plain truth of the matter."

"And I've got all the soldiers down from the attic and in formation," Sherlock wiped milk from his mouth and grinned. "Want to come and see?"

Finding it totally unnecessary to observe Kit's poorly disguised smile, Mycroft looked down at a small face bursting with the need to show off what he'd done.

"Have you finished dining?" Mycroft checked Kitta's expression; he'd be able to tell in an instant if there were still things she wanted the child to do.

"All finished," Sherlock flashed a fast glance at Kit. "May I go please?"

"Off you trot," she laughed. "Away with the two of you to play soldiers."

For a second, two narrowed sets of blue eyes turned her way, before both males departed in silence, preferring not to dignify such calumny with a response.

Running up the stairs to keep up with Mycroft's longer legs, Sherlock looked across at the smartly dark pin-striped suit and gleaming black leather brogues, the immaculate white shirt and what was undoubtedly an expensive tie. The dull hint of gold shone at the man's crisp cuffs. Not exactly the best clothes to be wearing when sprawling around on the floor. Sherlock shrugged. Adults did the silliest things.

Not knowing quite what to expect, Mycroft waited until Sherlock stood in front of the door opposite Kit's room, his fingers curled around the handle, his mouth curled in a delighted grin. " _Tadaaa!_ "

Through the flung-open door, Mycroft could see line after line of perfectly arrayed model soldiers stretching out across the wooden floor, each company meticulously ordered by regiment, readiness and rank. Those with muskets firing stood before those with their weapons at arms. The infantry flanked either side of a central wedge of mounted cavalry officers, their lances presented for inspection. In front and centre were the cannon, each piece carefully manned and ready for an immediate firing resolution. The entire scene was of an army deployed and ready for its marching orders.

Mycroft had forgotten, if indeed, he'd ever seen the full range of the models presented before, just how many they were and of the quality of the workmanship in their making. The pieces were truly spectacular and the child's display aptly splendid.

In a second, Sherlock was on the floor, sprawled out on his stomach.

Mycroft was at something of a loss. He had come to see, as requested; he had been impressed as predicted, but he felt that there was still something expected of him ...

Sherlock looked up. "You won't be able to see them at all properly from up there," he said, sliding himself over to make a space.

 _Ah_.

Comprehending that looking from afar would simply not meet Sherlock's unspoken desires, Mycroft sighed. His tailor would have a fit, but such was life. Sliding out of his jacket and folding it carefully, he saw there was nowhere to put it that wasn't on the floor. It was something of a moot point, he realised, considering everything else would soon be down there ... he sighed again and bent down to untie his shoes, after which he removed his watch, tie, cufflinks and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. Only then did Mycroft feel able to take his place at Sherlock's side.

He was met with a piratical grin.

"Do you want to be the British or the French?" Sherlock demanded, holding up two small Generals. "There's more British, but the French have better battle-tactics."

Raising his eyebrows in insouciant superiority, Mycroft took the red-coated Duke of Wellington and prepared to go to war.


	10. in which there are memories, music and misgivings.

 

They had been cautiously manoeuvring around one another for thirty minutes before Mycroft felt he was in any position to properly overwhelm the enemy. Sherlock was frowning, apparently considering a perilous, last-ditch strategy. _Triumph or perish_.

"And if you had known my opposing British force outweighed you and defeat was unavoidable?" Mycroft was curious as to how far the boy would go in order to win.

"Then I would have used Prussian colours, of course," Sherlock grinned, as he moved another battalion of French dragoons into the skirmish. "And attacked from the flank and rear."

A grimly pragmatic strategy, Mycroft nodded slowly in acknowledgement. Not, perhaps, the most honourable of methodologies, nor even the most original. But it might well work, if one was being totally clinical. He would be the very last to condemn any practice that kept one and one's men alive under enemy fire; it was what warriors _did_ ; fight with whatever was at hand. The soldier in him understood this concept intimately, though he knew very well that others would rarely be so cold-blooded. For some, there would always be _rules_ of combat, even when their side was being ingloriously butchered by opponents who shared no such compunction. It made warfare a most bloody occupation. Fortunately, he had always been able to differentiate between killing to survive and killing for the sake of it. Not everyone of his acquaintance had always been so ... ethical. Of course, there had been times ... moments ... when he had felt the darkness of immortality stir within him and take a more leading stance. His natural determination to ensure that his enemies, when defeated, _stayed_ defeated, had occasionally tested the moral limits of the man he had once been.

Unless incredibly provoked or impossibly tempted of course, Mycroft had little problem suborning his inner devil to his will, but there had indeed been ... _moments_. Sherlock's present focus upon the tactic of false battle colours was a reminder of one such encounter. He remembered it well.

It had been in 1108. Philip the Second who had been King of France since before the Norman Conquest, died and was succeeded by his son Louis the Sixth. The new king had numerous sycophantic advisors, one of whom was Armand, Duc de Floratyne, some vague cousin on the distaff side of the French throne. De Floratyne was not only of questionable parentage and thereby at best, only peripherally royal, but he was also a bastard of the first water; a vicious bully and a sadist. The man's reputation travelled across the English Channel long before his actual name reached British ears. Mycroft was no stranger to death, especially not violent death in battle, but the kind of misery de Floratyne brought with him was beyond the norm of human experience. A vile, vile man.

And Mycroft had ended up, briefly, in one of de Floratyne's French dungeons, betrayed by an acquaintance who had been tortured beyond endurable limits. Fortunately, Mycroft's prison was, as these places usually were, dark and subterranean. Had his captors but known Mycroft's effortless inducement to confession would have been a simple view of the sun ... He had been subjected to all manner of interrogation in a dank cesspool of a cellar lit only by crude torches burning in iron brackets on the walls. Horrific threats were made against his person in order to have him profess his role in the latest British incursion. Mycroft felt the ordeal to be the greatest irony, since his tormenters could not possibly know any threat of death, no matter how hideous, was unlikely to have the slightest effect; he had already walked down that path.

And even though none of the activities could possibly render him vulnerable or incapable of survival, Mycroft realised if he didn't provide his captors with _some_ indication of a growing debilitation, they might well have lopped his head off or burned him as a witch, neither of which fates he felt were really for him. So he did his best to appear increasingly enfeebled; groaning occasionally and begging for water. At least, he felt, he was making an _effort_. All seemed to be going swimmingly until the moment Armand de Floratyne stepped into the picture.

It had been a still, autumn night when the French aristocrat had finally visited him in his cell, deep below the _Château des Anges_ in northern Provence. He had ordered Mycroft thoroughly beaten before his arrival, expecting to see the Briton cowering on the filth-strewn floor. Yet though de Floratyne's hired thugs had done their best, Mycroft, half-naked and chained by his wrists to the underground cavern's wall, was still able to stand and greet the Frenchman with an unwavering blue stare. In hindsight, it had been a foolish flash of pride, but Mycroft could not find it in himself to give the other man the smallest moment of gratification.

Fully aware that any witnesses to murder might be called against him should there be demands for reparations later; de Floratyne dismissed his men, leaving only he and Mycroft in the flickering light of the smoking torches.

"Not dead yet then, Monsieur?" de Floratyne looked with increasing antagonism towards the filthy creature chained to the wall.

"It would seem not, Monsieur le Duc," Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

De Floratyne laughed easily, though his voice was hard. "I doubt you will make it to morning, however," he said, a shine of teeth showing between his lips.

"A point on which we must differ," Mycroft widened his eyes and smiled faintly, an expression very few of his enemies had ever seen twice.

The slim dagger unexpectedly in the Duc's hand appeared from nowhere, though Mycroft had seen the incongruous bulge in the man's sleeve even as he had walked into the torchlight. He was confident the damage such a weapon could inflict upon him was relatively minimal, considering he had originally been killed by a Roman broadsword thrust to the heart. His smile grew as de Floratyne approached, knowing precisely what the man was about to attempt. The sharp tip of the blade flicked almost playfully at Mycroft's throat before cutting slowly down into Mycroft's bare skin, ever closer to the point of his heart.

"I could kill you now with the barest turn of my wrist," de Floratyne gloated softly, his cruelty and egotism palpable things in the dim and smoky cell.

"You could certainly try," Mycroft sounded vaguely bored. He yawned.

The Duc's face a sudden rictus of incensed fury, he plunged the dagger hilt-deep into Mycroft's chest, his eyes wide with a satanic delight, anticipating his unfortunate victim's final death-scream.

It never came.

Peering down at the handle of the knife protruding from his chest, Mycroft smiled darkly. "My turn," he murmured, wrenching a wrist free from its iron manacle in order to seize the Frenchman by the throat.

The Duc's eyes were horrified windows of terror as the man who should by all rights be well on his way to a gory death, not only did not die, but _attacked_. Unable to call for help due to the fingers clamped tight around his windpipe, the Duc could only struggle fitfully as he found himself lifted several inches from the ground.

It was at this moment that Mycroft felt the fangs in his upper jaw descend into view, just as an indescribable lust for de Floratyne's blood coursed through him. But he was not a monster; he had never, not in over a thousand years, given in to the compulsion to feed; he could not do it now. _Yet nobody would know_ , Mycroft's demon whispered in his ear. He could drain the man entire and nobody would be any the wiser for hours. He grinned, pulling his other hand free from its confinement and removing the knife from his chest just as de Floratyne caught sight of the fangs and started to scream, his body thrashing wildly as his fingers clawed at his erstwhile captive's unforgiving hold. Still locked in an internal debate, Mycroft was mildly surprised to observe the Frenchman abruptly stop all movement and fall silent, the body which had only moments before been racked with dread panic, now still and lifeless.

 _Dead?_ Mycroft could sense no heartbeat or pulse of any description; an apoplexy then, or the man's heart had given way. In either event, the overwhelming desire for blood vanished as swiftly as it had appeared and Mycroft let the corpse drop to the floor.

With his exceptional night-vision, it had been a matter of minutes only to locate a way out of the dungeon and then onto a path South through the night-darkened French countryside to Marseille. Stowing away in the deep cargo-hold of a lumbering Norman ship, he had been back in London three nights later.

Mycroft sighed. It had all been such a long time ago.

"Remind me to lend you a book by Marcus Aurelius," he stared down at the mop of dark hair as the boy moved more of his soldiers.

"Why?" Sherlock looked up, curious. "Was he a clever battle tactician?"

Climbing to his feet and attempting to dust the knees of his trousers clean, Mycroft nodded. "But he was best known for knowing when not to fight at all," he said. "And he kept all kinds of knowledge in a great room in his head, with all his life's experiences carefully ordered and placed in such a way that he would never need worry about forgetting the lessons he'd learned," he added, picking up his belongings from the floor. "It's late,' he said, looking at his watch. It was after nine. "I believe Kit wants you to be in bed sooner than this."

Sherlock yawned. "Not tired," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"In which case, we can talk for a while," Mycroft guided the boy from the room, turning lights off behind him as they walked down the stairs to Sherlock's suite.

Though Kit had only had her new laundry for less than a day, she'd still managed to put newly washed linen on the child's bed, as well as giving the room something of a clean. The air in here was fresher and sweeter already.

As Sherlock was busy cleaning his teeth and washing his face, Mycroft stared out through the partially opened curtains into the night-lights of London and felt in the pocket of the jacket folded over his arm for Kit's third piece of paper. Unfolding the scrap, he read again the few words she'd written: _science_ and _reading_ and _mathematics_ and _medicine_ : all the things Sherlock claimed he'd like to have at school. Mycroft, of course, knew virtually nothing about any schools at all; therefore felt Sherlock's desires to be perfectly sensible; he would have expressed similar choices himself.

Running out from the bathroom, Sherlock leaped onto his bed, scrambling down inside the covers Mycroft held for him. Resting his face on the pristine linen pillowcase, he yawned again and blinked. "What did you want to talk about?"

 _Science and reading and mathematics and medicine_.

"Which of the sciences do you find the most interesting?" Mycroft claimed the armchair nearest the bed and linked his fingers together. "If we're to find the best school for you, then I think it wise we have a discussion about your preferences so that your choices are made perfectly clear."

"Do I have a choice?" Sherlock sounded mildly intrigued. "If so, then I'd rather not go at all," he added, as if the matter were settled.

"There may be some space to negotiate the nature of the school; its location and curriculum," Mycroft pulled reflectively at his bottom lip. "But I fear the question of whether to attend or not is out of our hands. Miss Penderic has made that perfectly clear."

Heaving a loud and troubled sigh, Sherlock slid a hand beneath his head. "In that case," he said. "I'd like a school where I can learn how to be a scientist and discover microbes and where they have spare legs so I can experiment with things and then read in the afternoons," he yawned widely. "Books about discoverers and adventurers," his voice softened as his eyes drooped. "About engines and how they make roads and ... stuff," he turned fully onto his side.

About to acknowledge the boy's desires as being possibly a little too advanced for his age-group, Mycroft realised Sherlock's breathing was already soft and even. Standing, he pulled the blankets a little higher and tucked them in around the child's back. Leaning down, he switched the bedside lamp off, though there was still a faint light coming in through the parted curtains. It would be enough, he decided, if the child awakened in the night.

Drawing the bedroom door closed but not entirely shut, Mycroft discovered there was a curve to his mouth he had not noticed. He shook his head, but the smile remained.

Down in the kitchen, Kit had just made a fresh pot of tea and seeing his return, poured Mycroft a cup as well as her own.

"Gone to bed, has he?" she lifted her eyebrows in query. "I'm surprised he managed to last this long with all the excitement of today."

Holding the cup and saucer, Mycroft frowned slightly. "He was very pleased to be able to use that room for the model army," he said. "It was a good idea to suggest it."

Kitta shrugged. "Seemed the sensible thing," she said. "Though I'm not sure it's the best way of going about it in the long run," she added, staring down at the knees of Mycroft's trousers. "Unless you remember to change into your play-clothes every time," she chuckled.

Decidedly _not_ rising to the bait, Mycroft sipped his tea. "I can certainly make arrangements that would improve the usage of the room," he nodded slowly over his cup. "For all parties concerned."

"You and your arrangements," Kit smiled. "Did you speak to him about school?"

"I did attempt to broach the topic, but it appears I left it a little too late."

"Fell asleep on you, did he? Bless him," Kit's smile got bigger. "He's a good lad, and right now he needs a bit of routine and comfort to get him back to rights," she paused. "It's good that you can make a bit of time to be with him," she said. "Gives him something to hang onto while he finds his feet."

The idea that his presence was now a requirement in Sherlock's very specific welfare wrapped around Mycroft's shoulders with a warmth of its own. He sighed and sipped his tea. "I'll work in my office tonight," he said. "And will be away early tomorrow morning. Is there anything you want me to do?"

Kit pursed her lips. "See what schools there are around here that might offer the boy what he wants," she said. "In a place like London, there's got to be all manner of educational establishments," she paused, turning to look at Mycroft's expression. "I take it money isn't going to be an issue?"

He smiled a little at that. Financial concerns were the very least of the problems he had to deal with these days. "Money is not an issue at any point," he sighed again. "But I know so little about the requirements of modern education," he said. "I fear I may not be the best of judges when it comes to locating Sherlock the most beneficial institution."

"If you can dig up some information, I'm sure we'll be able to make a decent choice between the three of us," Kit yawned. "I'm for an early night too," she said. "Been a bit too much excitement for me as well, today," she smiled and patted his shoulder as she headed for the kitchen door. "You're a good man, Mycroft Holmes."

Waiting until he could hear no sounds at all, Mycroft walked down the darkened passages into the main Drawing Room where he had brought Sherlock the first evening he'd been here. His _pianoforte_ , a modern grand, was a minor conceit Mycroft had pursued for a number of years now, centuries, really, waited in silence. Though he knew he would never possess the true creativity of a genuine musician, he had, over the decades, become reasonably proficient through practice alone. Lifting the carefully-polished lid, he allowed his fingertips to caress the beautifully responsive keys, knowing each one intimately even in the darkness of the unlit room. Sitting, he began to play the Bach piece he'd heard on Kit's radio in the kitchen, a section of the Goldberg Variations. He knew them all and could easily play from memory throughout the night, especially when he had much to think about. As he revisited the unfamiliar sensation of being actively _needed_ by the boy in his care, as well as the woman who knew of his monstrous nature yet who refused to condemn him for it, he wondered if perhaps this was to be one of those nights.

His fingers moving to the opening stance, Mycroft began to play.

The house was quiet when Kit came down the following morning, though she could have sworn she'd heard faint drifts of music in her sleep. The early sun was bright in the windows and she remembered she was to speak with Mycroft's cleaning company today to see what his 'arrangements' were and to make any changes she felt necessary. She wanted all the windows done inside and out, as well as the floor in Sherlock's war games room, even though it meant the lad would have to re-jig his soldiers. She also wondered what Mycroft might have had in mind to sort out the problem of his involvement in Sherlock's playing, though he was a grown man and surely could work that one out himself.

Bringing down the sheets and pillowcases from her own bed, as well as a selection of other linens from the vast range in the linen room at the end of the hallway, she once again ventured into the utterly revamped laundry in which she was already developing a huge delight. She'd never in her life had anything like this to work with before and it was a joy to play with. Mycroft might have his books and Sherlock his soldiers, but she had _all this_. Setting the washing going and thrilling secretly at the almost complete silence in which the machines operated, Kit returned to the kitchen to consider breakfast.

Something savoury this morning, she fancied. Something hot and filling and ... she nodded. A nice bacon and mushroom omelette would be the thing. Pulling various bits and pieces from the mammoth new refrigerator, Kit began humming some of the music she vaguely remembered hearing in her sleep; it seemed oddly familiar.

The sound of a chair being pulled back from the table told her she was no longer alone.

"Milk or juice or do want tea with me?" she asked without turning.

"Tea would be nice, please," Sherlock yawned, resting his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands.

Taking a quick look, Kit saw that the boy's hair was damp and he was in clean clothes. Good, he'd showered already. "I need you to bring all your dirty clothes and anything you need washing or mending or ironing down to the laundry for me this morning," she said. "So you'll have to sort out all your boxes of clothes and other gubbins today."

Sherlock groaned, slumping tragically to the table. "Do I have to?"

"Well, if I does it, I'm not going to know what's special and needs to be kept, and what's rubbish and can be chucked out," she said, reasonably. "So if you wants to hang on to anything in those boxes, best you sort them out yourself, hmm?"

Acknowledging the logic of her argument, Sherlock perked up. "Mycroft and I had a brilliant time with the soldiers last night before I went to bed," he said, pulling the cup of tea Kit had just poured closer. "But he got his suit really dirty on the floor," he shook his head. "Why'd he wear a suit to lie on the floor?"

"An excellent question, young man," Kit set toast and butter and marmalade on the table, then pulled out plates and divided a big fat omelette into two parts. "Perhaps it's because he doesn't have any other sort of clothes to wear?"

"But he's got pots of money ..." he was puzzled, then his face cleared and he nodded slowly. "But probably nobody's ever told him how to play soldiers properly before," he added, shoving a forkful of mushrooms into his mouth and chewing. "I can show him."

"I'm sure you can," Kitta smiled into her tea. "Which reminds me," she looked up. "If I'm to have that room properly cleaned up for you, then you're going to have to move all those soldiers again," she watched the boy's expression. "Sorry."

"It's alright," Sherlock sat back, nodding. "I know where every one goes now, so I can easily put them back in the right place afterwards."

Kit digested this piece of information along with her breakfast. "You can remember where every one of those soldiers and things are?" she asked.

Nodding and attacking the rest of his eggs, Sherlock seemed unconcerned. "Yup."

 _So the lad had something of a brilliant memory to go along with his exceptional brain_ , Kit mused, not really terribly surprised. Whichever school Mycroft picked would have to be equally exceptional if it were going to do any good.

"Right then," Kit saw he was about done with breakfast. "You go on upstairs and sort out everything that needs to be cleaned or taken care of and put it in here," she said, handing him a couple of cotton drawstring bags. "Bring it all down to the laundry and leave it there for me. And from now on, you need to bring me your dirty gear twice a week or more often if you need something in a hurry, alright?"

Nodding, Sherlock picked a last piece of toast from the table and skipped off to tackle his room.

Rinsing off the plates, Kit realised she wanted to work on Mycroft's room today, even though it might take her several goes to get everything just the way it should be. And there was something else she wanted. Pulling out the Selfridges number she rang from the main phone in the hall, getting through almost immediately to the person she wanted. Making her requirements very clear, she was told to expect delivery by lunchtime. _Perfect_. She could have everything cleaned by then, and just add the finishing touches.

Taking the first lot of washed linen outside into the newly refurbished courtyard, Kit pegged the wide sheets and tablecloths to her new washing lines. The way the morning was already warming up, they'd be dry in no time at all. Putting another load into the washing machine, she collected her newly-assembled basket of cleaning materials, her wondrously posh new vacuum-cleaner and headed for the lift to the first floor and Mycroft's private suite.

It was as she'd seen it the first time; dusty, airless and unkept, which would not do in the slightest. The first order of the day was to get some fresh air in here, and she threw open all the curtains and then inched the stiff, sash-cord windows up until a fair breeze drifted through. With both of the big windows open, there was a lot more light and, she could see, a lot more grime.

Starting from the top on the room, she dusted, swept, brushed and polished her way down to the silk rugs on the floor. Ancient cobwebs, home to multiple generations of spiders, were swept away and sucked up most efficiently by Mr Hoover's latest device. The rugs came up in glowing colours. Pondering how brutal she could be with the silk covers on the bed, Kitta decided nothing ventured, nothing gained, and hauled them all down to her new favourite place in the entire house. After hanging out the latest batch of clean laundry, she bundled all the several silk coverlets into the large machine and selected the most gentle of cycles. If they fell to bits, then so be it. None of them were going to be living in a museum any more if she had her way.

Back up in Mycroft's room, the next stage was a proper polishing of everything made of wood, which was just about everything that wasn't made of silk or marble. The huge bed took forever, but after she'd stripped it back to the mattress, she was able to use it as a platform to reach the highest bits. Her arms and back were throbbing madly when she'd done, but the job had been worthwhile and she was pleased. The warm air from the windows was pleasant and up this high, held no taint of petrol fumes or any displeasing City-smell. There was even a hint of fresh-cut grass from somewhere, probably from St James Square or Waterloo Gardens.

Back downstairs, Kit felt she deserved a cup of tea and one of the scones left over from the previous day. Sherlock had already left her a filled bag of dirty clothes, so he was obviously going through his stuff as she'd asked. Putting the kettle on, she wondered if there was such a thing as an intercom in this old house, so she could tell Sherlock to come downstairs. But she found nothing, so let the lift take her upstairs this time.

Sherlock was lying on his bed, reading.

The rest of his room looked like a bomb had gone off. True, he'd managed to hang all his clothes up in the cupboard as she'd asked, but everything else ... oh well. Bending down, she picked up several books and what looked like a box of old leaves and headed out the room with them.

"Wait!" Sherlock sat up. "Where are you taking my books?"

"Thought these were all the things you din't want no more," Kit smiled easily. "Anything left on the floor like that can't be much use to nobody, can they?" she added, heading for the door.

" _Okay_ , I'll pick everything up from the floor!" sighing loudly, the boy dragged himself off his bed and began stacking books quite carefully, Kit noted, on one of the several book cases in his room.

"What's these?" Kitta looked more closely at the box of leaves.

"It's my collection of dried skin," he smiled. "Not got any human samples yet, but there's a lot of others in there," he held out a hand for the box which Kit was suddenly very happy to return.

"Tea's on and there's still a couple of scones that need eating," she headed out of the room. "I'll be up later to vacuum in here, so anything still on the deck is going out with the rubbish," she called back over her shoulder.

The front doorbell rang just as she exited the lift. Heading towards the door, Kit wondered if this was her Selfridges order already.

But it wasn't.

Two burly men stood on the steps beside yet another van, though this one bore the name and details of a reputable firm of carpenters and joiners.

The man who'd rung the bell held a clipboard with an invoice. Extracting a pencil from behind his ear, he held it out to Kit. "Delivery and assembly as required," he said. "We wuz told to get a shift on as it was urgent."

"What's urgent?" Kitta was mystified. Another one of Mycroft's little _arrangements_ , no doubt, but after yesterday, whatever was there left for him to do? She signed anyway.

"That is," the man retrieved his pencil, pointing it at a series of large, flat sections of polished wood.

"Yes, but what _is_ it?" Kit was none the wiser.

"Table," the man sucked his teeth and tapped the clipboard. "Says here it's for the Games Room."

 _Games Room?_ Kit frowned. There was only one possible place that could be.

"Come on in with me, then," she said. "It's up two flights of stairs, or there's a small lift you can use," she added, assessing the dimensions of the sectioned wood. "Though I don't think they would fit inside it."

"Not a problem, Love," the man grinned, grabbing several pieces and, wrapping them in rough sacking, carried them in on his back. "Point the way and then you can leave us to it."

Leading them up to the dancing room, Kit saw them begin stacking bags of tools and bundles of various lengths of wood on the floor. Judging by the amount of wood-shavings they were tracking in on their boots, the next time Mycroft's cleaning company arrived, they'd have a fairly demanding job on their hands for once.

Sherlock was right by the door. "I better move all my soldiers," he said, peering inside.

"Good thinking," Kit nodded. "I've no idea what Mycroft has organised, but it looks fairly serious, so we'd best go with it," she added. "Do you want me to help you move your toys?"

The semi-outraged look the child gave her from beneath half-lidded eyes made her laugh. She patted his arm. "Off you go then."

Back downstairs, the doorbell rang again before she'd made it to the kitchen. This time, it was the Selfridges delivery she'd been expecting.

"Lovely," Kit smiled as she saw her order had been precisely followed. "Please bring it all through here," she said, bringing the two delivery people in through the old Butler's pantry and finally into the laundry room. "Just lay everything there, if you would," she pointed to the long slate benches beside the big sinks. "Do I need to sign anything?"

Between the washing and the work she was doing in the laundry and keeping track of Sherlock who was, in turn, keeping track of the two carpenters, it was well into the afternoon before Kit stopped to catch her breath. It had been another flat-out day and no mistake. Checking the clock on the wall, she realised she'd best get dinner going if she wanted to feed the boy a roast chicken by six o'clock.

As she was stuffing the bird and the oven was heating, Sherlock came running into the kitchen, his eyes wide and a grin the size of a new moon on his face.

"Come look," he demanded. "Come and see, _quick!_ "

"Whatever it is can wait until I get this bird in the oven," Kit calmly finished her task, washed her hands, put the chicken in to roast and took a deep breath. "What is it?"

Grabbing her hand, Sherlock towed her out from the kitchen and along the passage to the lift where he pressed the '2' button impatiently. "It's _amazing_ ," was all he would say to her quizzical expression.

Dragging Kit down the hallway to the dancing room, he waited until she'd stepped inside where the two men were just putting their tools away and wiping their hands.

And it really was amazing, the boy was not exaggerating in the least.

The most _immense_ polished wooden table, as elegant as any of the furniture downstairs, yet undeniably new. It filled two-thirds of the room and had to be at least ten feet wide by twice that in length, the beautiful grain of the polished walnut top was complimented by the sturdily turned and lightly ornamented table legs of which there seemed an excessive number.

"Built to last, is that," the taller of the two craftsmen nodded, pleased at the job. "Was meant as a boardroom table for a company wot went bust, so it's good to see it go to another home," he nodded briefly. "We'll be off then," he smiled, heading for the door.

Kit stood behind the child resting her hands on both his shoulders. "My god," she breathed. "It's massive."

Sherlock turned beneath her fingers, grinning as only a nine year-old can do. "It's great," he laughed. "Perfect for my soldiers."

"But how can you possibly reach the middle of the table?" Kit shook her head. Not even Mycroft's arms were that long.

"With these," Sherlock lifted up a long thin piece of doweling with a flat piece of wood at the end. "Or these," he added, carrying over a small set of wooden steps which he placed beside the table and proceeded to walk up, coming to a rest in the exact centre of the newly created edifice.

"Is that safe?" Kit wasn't sure.

"Soon find out," Sherlock grinned. Right before he jumped.


	11. in which there are discussions and other forms of communication.

 

... and landed, the soft soles of his shoes making no sound at all on the fine wood of the table's spacious surface. Nor was there even so much as a creak or a tremor from the entire construction.

"It's as solid as a rock," Sherlock walked around the perimeter of the polished edifice as if assessing it for mountaineering purposes, hands on his hips as he peered over the edge of the north face. "I could use this for all sorts of games and experiments in the future," he grinned as before. "It's brilliant," he added. "And that's just the _top_ of it," his grin, if possible, got even bigger. "Then there's all the space _underneath_ ..."

"Well, why don't you get your army all set out again, and by the time you're done, I 'spect dinner will be just about ready," Kit folded her arms, looking around. "At least now I can get this floor cleaned without having to disturb you too much," she sounded contemplative. "And it means Mycroft won't need to worry about getting his nice suits mucky anymore ..." she glanced around again, frowning. "Though it needs some chairs and a couple of side tables, I think," she added, nodding, knowing exactly where she might find just the thing.

But first, she needed to finish the preparations for dinner, and then add the last few touches to Mycroft's room. Even if he never used the bedroom for its conventional purpose, at least she could make it a more pleasant place for him to be in while he dressed or lay down to read and rest. If he ever did.

After getting all the vegetables peeled and in the oven to roast, Kitta returned to her task in the laundry which, apart from being a perfect spot now for doing the washing, was equally perfect for arranging flowers. Which was what she'd been doing most of the day since the delivery of numerous bunches of the things from Selfridges. She'd always loved flowers and having them inside a house made her feel there was something just a little special about the place.

Kit had ordered quantities of dark crimson gladioli and bronze foxglove, a dozen dark red long-stemmed roses, their old-fashioned fragrance making the air warm and pleasant. There were stems of cultivated lilac, white wisteria, the deepest blue hydrangea and some spectacular ivory lilies. There was even some dark red peonies and a couple of bunches of long greenery thrown in. Kit had never really had the money to do this as a serious hobby, or even as a second vocation, but she dearly loved her flowers. The idea for making up a few decent displays for the house had come when she'd spotted several large vases in various settings in the different ground-floor rooms. Using up the very last piece of white wisteria, she ended up with four, very lovely arrangements, each one different and suited to the vase that held it.

The largest was destined for the table in the main hallway where the phone sat. it was tall and fan-like, its elegant arrangement visually stunning and beautifully fragrant; the perfume would pervade the entire ground floor. The second largest was for Mycroft's Drawing Room, where she'd seen a perfectly located occasional table near the piano that simple begged for a bit of colour and life. The third vase was for the man's bedroom; even if he never used the place, at least she would know that it was as welcoming as she could make it for him. The fourth and smallest arrangement was for her own sitting room; it would fit perfectly on the long mantelpiece over the currently unused fireplace. It would help make the place feel a bit more like home. It was a little indulgent, yes, but she didn't think Mycroft would mind the small extra expense.

Carrying the flowers intended for his bedroom, Kit looked around after she'd positioned the vase, a large piece of mostly white Meissen if she was right about the porcelain hallmarks. It contrasted superbly well against the darkness of the walls and furniture and added just that little extra touch of refinement. Closing the windows down and looking around before she left, she saw all her work of the day reflected back. Everything glowed. The long drape of the curtains were dust-free after she'd spent twenty minutes on them with her new vacuum. She'd made up the bed with fresh washed sheets and covers; the silks proving far tougher than they'd appeared and not only had they survived the washing in good style, but had dried soft, fragrant and glowing.

All in all, Kit was content with the results.

Downstairs, with the lights on in the Drawing Room, the reflections of the polished piano and the shiny marble fireplace, her arrangement of tall dark peonies and blood-red Jacobean lilies was not only fragrant but supremely sophisticated. Not as homely as the hydrangea, but far more striking, they looked well at-home in this most graceful of rooms.

When she was done admiring her work and the small changes she had been able, thus far, to impose on the long-neglect of this lovely house, Kit returned to the kitchen to check on dinner. Realising she had another half-hour or so before it would be ready, rather than waste the time, she took the lift back up to Sherlock's War Games room and sought his assistance. "Come on, you," she beckoned. "Help me move a few chairs and things in here to make it all a bit more comfortable."

Jumping down from the table where he'd been busy restoring his troops to their rightful places, Sherlock followed her along the passageway to the left, towards the linen room. The first door they came to opened into a small sitting room, with white dust covers everywhere. Not really having any idea of what might be in here, Kitta reasoned there should at least be a couple of semi-serviceable chairs and a small table she could move into the games room for the menfolk.

Letting Sherlock race around, pulling the dusty white cloths from everything, she was pleasantly surprised to find four very nice Regency armchairs, each one upholstered in a delicate cream and navy striped fabric that looked almost new. In fact, the chairs themselves looked as if they'd hardly ever been used at all. Kit wondered to whom the sitting room had originally belonged; it didn't seem to be a place that Mycroft would ever have needed. There were also a couple of low, perfectly matching coffee tables in the same glowing walnut as the new games table. That decided things; she'd move the chairs and the tables into the far end of the games room for the relaxation of the adult population.

With Sherlock taking the front legs while she handled the heavy parts, between them, they had everything moved into the room and arranged within ten minutes. Giving the patina'd wood a good polish to erase any remaining dust and fingerprints, Kit stood back, finally satisfied. Though the room was still not as clean or as finished as she would like, at least it was a damn sight better than having to roll around on the floor. She felt confident Mycroft would approve.

Lifting Sherlock's wrist so she could check the time, Kit saw it was nigh on six o'clock and dinner would be ready. "Downstairs now," she said. "Wash your hands and I'll have your dinner ready in two shakes of a lamb's tail." She almost laughed as she saw a calculating expression cross the boy's face as he worked out how long a lamb's tail might be.

When Mycroft opened the front door this time, he was already half-prepared for the signs and sounds of increasingly familiar occupancy. There were lights and the sound of voices ... music ... there was also ... the scent of flowers; he turned his head to locate the source. A large and professional-looking floral arrangement took pride of place on the hallway sideboard. Laying his briefcase next to the vase, he paused, taking in the shape and composition of the blooms and greenery. There hadn't been flowers in this house for ... longer than he cared to remember; Kit's doing, obviously. A faint smile curved his mouth as he headed into the kitchen.

His ... family ... were there, as expected, dawdling over the remains of dinner.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock sat up straight. "Two men built a huge table in our games room," he grinned widely. "It's perfect! And there's even chairs in there now, so you won't need to get your trousers dirty!"

Raising his eyebrows as he glanced from the boy to the woman, Mycroft observed Kit's quietly self-satisfied expression. "Another busy day?" he asked, heading for the refrigerator, stopping short when he saw a small silver tray all laid out for him on the marble benchtop beside it. There were several different-sized glasses standing beside an ice-lined silver wine cooler, as well as a silver ice-bucket full of dainty cubes. A small bowl of sliced limes and chillies and a long thin silver spoon sat beside the opened bottle of his prized vodka which was nestled deep in the cooler. A tiny wave of pleasure washed through him. Such thoughtful touches were beyond his usual experience; it was slightly disconcerting.

"Would you like to have your refreshments in the Drawing Room?" Kit made as if to stand, when he waved her still, bringing the tray and all its contents over to the table.

"Something of a treat this evening, I see," Mycroft took a tall glass and filled it full of diminutive ice cubes. Adding several slices of lime and an equal amount of sliced chilli, he poured the freezing clear spirit until all the ice floated. Taking the slender spoon, he stirred everything carefully together, only then returning the bottle to its silver nest.

Relaxing back into one of the kitchen chairs, he took a long sip of the concoction and found himself sighing in sheer pleasure.

"A busy day, indeed," Kit nodded, finished the last of her tea. "But a productive one, I think."

"You _have_ to come upstairs and see the new table," Sherlock pushed plates aside and leaned forward. "It's _so_ big, the men had to _build_ it in the room," he added. "It's truly enormous."

"And what else have you been doing other than falling in love with a piece of furniture?" Mycroft found it difficult to resist the child's transparent delight. He'd asked Jude to contact a few joinery businesses known for customised business furniture and had been fortunate enough to be offered a remaindered piece, sight unseen. Given its approximate dimensions, he'd taken the chance on the proviso it could be delivered and installed immediately. Apparently, he'd done the right thing.

"I shall join you upstairs shortly," he looked thoughtful. "There are a few things I need to discuss with Kit first."

"Right," Sherlock jumped to his feet. "I'll see you up there ... you can be French tonight ..."

"Everything alright?" Kitta looked at him after the hurricane that was Sherlock had blown from the room. Mycroft had sounded a little ... intent. "No problems to do with the boy, is there?"

Taking another sample of his drink, Mycroft shook his head. "I've been advised that all your belongings have been successfully packed and are _enroute_ ," Mycroft rested his linked fingers on the table. "I've also taken your advice and had one of my Admins look up several independent schools in the immediate North-London area," he added. "Brochures were obtained and I spent quite some time this afternoon narrowing the options down to this one," he said, taking a thick piece of folded paper from inside his inner breast pocket and laying it before her. "I'd appreciate your thoughts on the matter."

 _The Eaton Square Preparatory School_ , she lifted her reading glasses onto her nose and read, unfolding the paper outwards to see its various claims and facilities. Numerous pictures of happy, smiling children in blazer-neat, royal blue uniforms. Children reading and playing cricket and looking down into microscopes.

"Not sure about the cricket," Kit met his gaze. "Unless they provide mountain-climbing," she turned the brochure over. _Ah_. "Which they do," she nodded. "I doubt our Sherlock is much of a one for football."

"It was this," Mycroft pointed to a specific section on science, "that caught my eye initially," he said. "I thought it sounded promising."

" _Experiment-led investigations across a wide range of scientific subjects, minimum of five lessons each week_ ," Kit looked impressed. " _Scientific visits and workshops, museum visits_... sounds good to me," she looked across at Mycroft. "Are you going to meet the Head?" she asked.

Uncertain, Mycroft paused. "Do I need to?"

"It's the usual thing when your child goes to a new school," Kit took a small glass from Mycroft's silver tray and added several chunks of ice and a slice of lime. "I think it's expected," she said, waiting as Mycroft poured her a reasonable amount of the icy clear liquor. "Bottoms up," she swirled the glass and took a swig, her eyes growing wide as she inhaled sharply. " _Dear Christ_ ," she husked, her face slightly pink.

"Smooth, isn't it?" Mycroft smiled slyly as he sipped from his own glass. "One-hundred and seventy-five percent proof," his smile widened. "Not for sissies."

"You've never been to a nurses' Christmas party, have you," Kitta beamed right back once she'd caught her breath, adding a few fresh lumps of ice to her drink. "They'll try embalming fluid if it's free," she held up her glass for a refill.

Looking amused, Mycroft topped her up. "What do you think of the school?"

Eyes watering after the second hit of alcohol, Kit nodded silently. " _S'good_ ," she whispered, her face screwed up tight at the border between pain and pleasure.

"Then I'll make the appropriate arrangements to meet with the Headmaster," Mycroft nodded topping up his own glass. "An evening visit, I think," he hesitated. "There is also the matter of this," he said, extracting a small, leather-covered box from his pocket and pushing it across the table towards her.

Meeting his eyes with a puzzled look, Kitta nevertheless opened the discreet container to see a brand-new watch with a thin black leather strap and a cream dial with clear black numerals. It seemed so simple that it was almost plain, but she knew it wasn't. Similar in many respects to her ancient Timex, she was fairly certain that _this_ one with the word _'Zenith'_ written across the dial in faint gold lettering was very likely a bit more expensive. "T'is lovely," she said, smiling and returning it to its box. "But I already has a watch, thank you."

" _Had_ , I think you'll find," Mycroft took the Zenith back out of the box and fastened it carefully around her right wrist. "I think your loan to Sherlock is probably going to be of a permanent nature," he looked a little awkward. "I felt you should not be inconvenienced because of your generous nature."

"T'was only an old watch, Mycroft," she murmured, but nevertheless lifting up her wrist to more clearly see the new one. It was very slim and everything about it shouted Switzerland. Kit had never had anything quite as fancy as this, and, knowing Mycroft's taste in things, she doubted it had been as cheap as the old Timex. "But t'is a lovely thing," she added softly. "And if you're _insisting_ ..."

"As I am," his tone was amused.

Kit sniffed and looked mildly put out, but left the watch exactly where it was.

Upstairs, in the Games Room, Sherlock was finalising his own preparations for the evening, having brought several dice and an old leather cup for shaking them. If Mycroft were going to join him on a regular basis, then the formal rules of war-gaming would need to be followed, but as something of an expert, Sherlock was confident of his ability to bring Mycroft up to speed. It would be fun to be able to re-enact the classical battles in a reality other than the inside of his own head. He looked around; the chairs and tables were close enough to be convenient, and if Mycroft took his jacket off again, he could hang it over the back of ... but wait. Remembering the layout of the attic he'd managed to explore thus far ... he recalled there was something that would do perfectly. Dumping the cup and dice on the table, he ran out to the lift.

Leaving Kit to sort out the remains of dinner, Mycroft reclaimed his briefcase and dropped it on his office desk. Checking his hunter, he saw there was a good couple of hours before Sherlock's bedtime; enough to watch the boy enjoy playing with his soldiers as well as have a meaningful discussion about the school in Eaton Square. About to leave his jacket in here, he recalled Sherlock's statement that there were now chairs, a most civilised enhancement, available for the players. Smiling, he strolled up the stairs, stopping at the master bedroom for a clean handkerchief in case his hands ended up as dusty as they had the previous evening. He stopped, an unexpected alteration in the air compelling him for once to switch on the main lights.

While it was still the room he had walked out of that morning, it was also entirely different. Not only did it _feel_ better, the entire place gleamed. There was a scent of old fashioned wood polish and of the vase of flowers on the tallboy; the linens on the bed were crisp and freshly ironed; the bed itself looked far more welcoming than he remembered it ever being. There was even, he observed, a round silver tray set down on the nearest bedside table, on which rested a crystal-cut tumbler, a small ice-bucket and a bottle of his favourite scotch. He blinked slowly; Kit was clearly trying to rectify all that she saw as being wrong in the house and he wondered, out of he and Sherlock, which of them she felt needed the most nurturing. She was a one-woman cyclone and easily the match for Sherlock, Mycroft paused, a rueful cast to his face. And himself, come to that. Switching off the lights, he headed upstairs to see the wondrous new table that had the child in such raptures, walking through the open door to see Sherlock striding around the outside of the table top itself, his gaze focused entirely upon the soldiers at his feet.

"We need terrain," he frowned. "Hills and trees and lakes and things," he added. "To make the battles more authentic."

Sparing a quick glimpse at the rest of the room, Mycroft noted the new seating arrangements Kit had clearly engineered, as well as ...

"What," he heard himself ask. "Is _that?_ "

Looking up from his men and following Mycroft's line of sight, Sherlock nodded at the white-cotton tailor's dummy he'd just brought down from the attic. It was perfectly clean after he'd unwrapped the covers from it, the cotton-clad torso of the mannequin perched on a tall and solid wooden base.

"For your coat," he said, turning back to the disposition of his army. "For when you want to hang anything up properly. I thought it would be better than putting things over the back of a chair."

The statement was so candid and yet so unexpected from a child that Mycroft was fleetingly lost for a response, but rallied swiftly. "An admirable and ingenious solution to an important problem," he nodded, immediately removing his jacket and slipping it over the dummy's shoulders. "Far better than anything I would have come up with."

Stepping off the table onto the small steps, Sherlock handed Mycroft one of the several long wooden rods the carpenters had knocked together for him. "So we can both reach everything in the middle," he said, lifting up the cup with the six dice inside and giving Mycroft a pragmatic and cautionary stare. "Once you know the rules."

Mycroft refused to make the game overtly easier for the boy, but he saw that Sherlock was already learning, his tactics changing a little from the previous evening. "There is a small school, one-and-a-half miles from here," he said, throwing two sixes and moving a small squad of men into the fray. "In Eaton Square."

"Does it have lots of science?" Sherlock's eyes remained on his company of cavalry officers. He was unwilling to risk them against Mycroft's undiscovered cannon.

"Apparently at least one class of science every day," Mycroft stood back, looking at the rough collection of small boxes and containers they'd found in the unused sitting room next door and which now doubled as battlefield topography. "And the school also has an excellent reputation for Mathematics and music," he added, shaking the dice in the old leather cup. "They have mountain climbing and clay-pigeon shooting for the older children."

"Would I be able to do experiments and lots of reading?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, wondering where Mycroft's lancers were hiding. _Perhaps if he made a feint towards one of his flanks_ ...

"The information I have on the school is limited. It would be best to actually go there and meet with the relevant people," Mycroft hid a smile. _Any moment now and there'd be a mad charge of Heavy Horse_.

"Very well," Sherlock looked imperious. He'd just worked out where at least one of the opposing infantry companies were hidden. "When?"

"As soon as it can be arranged, I think," Mycroft frowned faintly as Sherlock threw three sixes and stole a march by advancing his cannon. "Unwise," he said, pursing his lips.

"Unwise to go to the school or ..." Sherlock scowled blackly as Mycroft rode neatly through his entire battery of guns, going on to slaughter his unwary foot-soldiers lurking behind the nearest shoebox.

"They may expect you to learn a musical instrument," Mycroft smiled cheerily as Sherlock's entire campaign seemed in danger of becoming a total rout. "You would be welcome to use the piano downstairs if you wished, or I could get you a smaller one up here."

Folding his arms tight across his chest, a deeply lugubrious expression noting the thrashing of his carefully crafted strategy, Sherlock shook his head. "Not the piano," he said, mourning his dismal Generalship. "It's too stationary. If I must, then something smaller, something I can carry around," he thought for a second. "The oboe, or a flute, maybe. Something easy to put away and quick to learn. I want to waste no time on such pursuits," stepping forward he laid The Duke of Wellington on his side. "I yield," his voice virtuous and his bearing noble.

 _Though to what the boy was yielding, Mycroft was uncertain_.

"We need battle flags," he announced as the victorious and somewhat self-satisfied Commander of the French. "At the very least, I feel military headgear of some description would add to the richness of the experience."

"And where are we going to find the right kind of military headgear?" Sherlock scorned, though the idea of wearing a General's hat sounded interesting. Mycroft smiled. It would take the smallest of efforts and, quite by chance, he happened to know where such hats might be located within fairly easy reach.

"Leave that to me," he lifted his eyebrows. "Another game? We have time before you go to bed."

"Then this time I shall take the part of the American forces at the Battle of Saratoga," he announced. "Which gives you a choice of either the incompetent Burgoyne or the enfeebled Cornwallis."

Mycroft struggled to keep his face straight. He had been present at the retaking of Fort Ticonderoga; the evening of the event, at any rate. His skills as a spy had been much in demand at the time, writing coded missives for General Burgoyne throughout the middle of 1777, though he had been required back in London by August of that year, and was therefore absent for the crushing defeat of the British forces at Saratoga in October.

"Then, General Gates," Mycroft doffed an invisible cocked hat and made an elegant and showy bow." Prepare to meet your maker."

"Ever the haughty British," Sherlock set about rearranging the boxes and tins to suggest a more realistic geographic scenario.

Folding his arms, Mycroft found himself smiling again; this must be what people called _having_ _fun_.

It was much later, when the entire house was once again silent, that Mycroft felt able to revisit his private sanctuary through the secret door in the Library. The racks and shelves of clothes, much of it military in nature, presented themselves for his inspection, and he was quickly able to locate several items of headgear which might find favour with his young and highly combative opponent. About to return to the land of the living, a small case on a high shelf caught his eye and reminded him of another part of the evening's conversation. Looking thoughtful and after removing most of the dust, he tucked in beneath his arm in order to explore it more closely upstairs.

Heading for the kitchen, he hunted around for a soft brush, eventually locating one of Kit's new cleaning brushes in the cupboard beside the sink. Giving each of the hats some thorough attention, he soon had them looking respectable. The case and its contents he felt it better not to touch, though he opened it briefly to see that all inside was as expected. Heading back up to the Games Room, he left his cargo, case, hats and all, on the edge of the table where Sherlock would see them in the morning.

Mycroft stood, thinking. There was work waiting for him in his briefcase that would take at least one or two hours to complete ... but he was aware of a pressing urge to leave it for the moment. Instead of returning to the tasks he'd allotted himself this evening, he walked into his room, switching on the bedside light. Pausing for a moment, he made a decision and, slipping his shoes off and hanging his jacket in the dressing room, he walked back to the bed. He couldn't remember the last day he'd slept in it or attempted to sleep, but it had to have been years. Kit's ministrations made it tempting to revisit, and, after piling up several of the pillows, Mycroft sank down onto the welcoming covers. Leaning across to pour himself a small scotch, he noticed a small book propped up behind the bottle. Reaching over, he brought it back for consideration. It was a tourist piece, obviously aimed at the City's many visitors. _London in 30 Days_ , and reviewed a great many new and ancient places of interest. It was Kit's, clearly, even with one of her bookmarks still in place. She must have left the book for him to read so that ... so that what? So that he might find some places of interest for he and Sherlock to visit together? If so, it would have to be something open in the evening, and surprise _surprise_ , Kit's bookmark was at the beginning of the 'After dark' section. His mouth curving up at the corners, Mycroft sipped his scotch and read the entire thing. _It was so pleasant, simply lying here_ , he thought. Everything was still and quiet and he felt his bones relaxing down into the softness of the quilts. His eyes fluttered closed ...

Only to be pulled horribly open at the sound of Sherlock screaming in the next room.

Hurling himself from the bed, Mycroft flew along the passage and in through the door to the child's bed, where the boy was sat, upright and rigid in his bed, hands covering his face, his entire body shaking. Without a second thought, Mycroft had his arms wrapped around Sherlock's thin frame, absorbing the tremors, his fingers instinctively stroking the child's unruly hair. "It's alright now, Sherlock, I have you; you're safe, everything's alright, I'm here, Sherlock," Mycroft floundered for what else he should be doing. "I'm here."

" _It was the 'plane_ , _Mycroft_ ," the boy shuddered. "I dreamed of them being on the aeroplane as it crashed and there were explosions and _fire_ ... and screaming," he shuddered again, tears coming as his body slumped within the man's arms. All Mycroft could think of was holding tight.

Kit hurried through the door still doing up her dressing gown. Turning on the bedside lamp, she assessed the situation. "Nightmare?" she made the assumption based on the noise that had awakened her and the fact that the child was clinging onto his guardian for dear life. "Poor mite," she said, feeling for the child's pulse which was racing. "A warm bed and some calming conversation is best for now," she added. "I'll fetch him some hot milk and a hot water bottle," she said. "If you can keep him company for a bit."

Nodding without hesitation, Mycroft, still with his arms tightly wrapped around Sherlock' shoulders, moved into a more comfortable position with the child a little more under the covers to retain his body heat. "Do you want to tell me about the dream?" he asked, hesitantly. Having absolutely no clue what to do under the circumstances, he wasn't sure whether talking about it would be the best thing or not, but it seemed the most sensible option. Sherlock shook his head, still weeping, though his breathing was beginning to even out a little.

Thinking he might loosen his grip fractionally, Mycroft felt the boy scrabble closer, seeking whatever comfort there was to be had. "It's alright, Sherlock," Mycroft kept his voice low. "I won't leave you alone, I'm here for as long as you need me to be."

Kitta returned with a hot water bottle in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. "Here now," she said, putting the milk down on the bedside table and sliding the hot water bottle under the covers beside the boy. "No need to fret now, my lad," her tone was friendly but firm. "Here's some warm milk with a bit of honey, have a sip, there's a good boy," she murmured, holding the mug up.

But Sherlock wanted none of it; he clung, terrified to Mycroft's waistcoat, shaking again.

"They gave me some sedatives for him at the ... beginning," Mycroft spoke hesitantly. "They seemed to help."

Kitta made a face. "Don't like giving sedatives to children," she muttered, stroking the boy's hair. "They always comes back to bite you in the end, do sedatives," she looked pained at the fresh sobs emerging from Sherlock's rigid body.

"I just ... I can't _bear_ him to suffer like this ..." Mycroft sounded wretched.

"Better a little suffering now than worse later on," Kit sighed heavily, sitting back on the edge of the bed, feeling the child's trembling getting worse rather than lessening.

"They're in the top drawer of the tallboy in my room," Mycroft sighed eventually as he felt Sherlock's fingers become claws. "Please get them; we'll use one tonight and I'll have a chat with a doctor about the situation tomorrow."

Doing as she was bid, Kitta shook her head. No good would come of this, but it was plain that the boy was doing badly. Fetching the box of tablets, she read the instructions and emptied one of the white capsules into the warm drink. "Here, lovey," she put the mug to Sherlock's lips. "Have some of this and you'll be feeling better in no time at all."

It took Mycroft to get Sherlock to drink the milk, but both adults sat beside the child until the medication took effect and the boy's grip relaxed.


	12. in which there are discoveries and questions.

 

Kit awoke in bed with the early sun streaming in the window as she blinked awake. Immediately recalling the previous night, she wondered how the boy was doing; he had been badly frightened, though Mycroft hadn't exactly been entirely calm about things. She wouldn't like to put money out of which of the two had been most upset by the nightmare. She sighed.

 _However_.

The child had a bad dream, but it was not the end of the world. Giving the boy things to make him sleep was not the way to go about this and, now that she was forewarned of such things, she could prepare for the next one, and she'd be surprised if there _wasn't_ a next one. Sherlock, no matter how well he appeared to have adjusted to his new living situation, had experienced something dreadful. It would be foolish not to take steps in case such a reaction should reoccur. These things took their own time to work themselves out, and taking medications was not the best way to deal with such issues in the long run.

Doing up the belt on her dressing-gown, she walked down the single flight of stairs to the passageway outside the master suite and Sherlock's room. The door was open, but the room was silent. Stepping inside, she saw Mycroft sitting in almost precisely the same spot as she'd left him the previous night; still in his shirtsleeves, still staring at the sleeping child as if the world would end should he stop.

"He'll sleep yet for a while," she said quietly. "Those sedative things are fairly strong for a body his size and it'll take a time to work through his system," she added. "I doubt he'll be up to much today even once he's woken."

"You think I was wrong to give him the drug," not so much a question as a statement of doubt. Mycroft frowned down at his linked fingers.

"I understands how you don't want the boy to suffer," Kitta rested her hand briefly on Mycroft's shoulder, feeling the cool, rigid muscle tensed beneath her fingers. "But sometimes things have to be a little hard to be best in the long run," she said. "In future, if you can't handle the laddie's upset, I suggest you leave him to me. You know I don't want him suffering any more than you do, but I think I'm a bit tougher in the emotions stakes," she smiled gently, squeezing his shoulder. "And in any case, this might not be a regular thing," she raised her eyebrows. "If this is the first he's had since the accident, then it might just be nature's way of working the upset out through his system," she said. "No need for either of us to be overly concerned unless it becomes a regular thing, at which point, there are other options apart from strong drugs."

Sighing, Mycroft nodded. As usual, Kit Penderic was quite right; it was a relief to have such an unaffected and down-to-earth source of information and support at his side. Though he could not bear the notion that Sherlock might be so distraught again, he was fully aware that he might not be the world's greatest expert on the care of traumatised children. "As you say," he smiled fleetingly, still a little uncertain. The last time he'd felt this way was not long before he'd died, while his humanity, rough and red-blooded as it had been, also contained the kernel of human warmth.

The boy, Edern, had been young, but back then, you were a man as soon as you could wield a sword. He was a pleasant enough village lad; happy to help out, happy to do as he was bid. Until his eyes met those of the equally young Roman slave, Trueth, a captive taken by the invading force somewhere along their travels in the Southern lands. The two had been drawn to one another like moths to candlelight from that first glance, despite dire warnings and all manner of impediment, the two of them were deaf and blind to every counsel. Until the day that Trueth's captors sold her off to some passing trader and she was gone, unseen and unlamented, before the sun came down on the day.

Edern's reaction was easy to predict, but it was Mycroft, or _Mycurrought_ as he'd been then, who'd been the one standing beside the road leading out of the village; the road that would take the boy to the Roman encampment and, almost certainly, to his death.

It had been Mycroft who had thrown the young man to the ground, who had kept the boy there despite the howls for revenge and the shouts of fury. It had been he who'd waited until Edern had finally flagged, exhausted and bereft, weeping into the dried clay road. Mycroft had hated his feeling of helplessness then and he hated it now. But all he could do now, as then, was to watch and wait.

Standing and stretching a little, looking down at Sherlock, he sighed. There was nothing more he could do here and he was expected very shortly in Whitehall. He had to dress and go, before the light grew too strong. "I'll return at the usual time," he nodded, heading for his own rooms and leaving Kitta to take over the vigil beside Sherlock's bed.

Knowing the worst thing she could do was to over emphasise the previous night's events lest the boy take it into his mind that having a nightmare was the world's most terrible experience, Kit decided she'd whip up some breakfast as soon as she'd got herself organised. Something nice though, to take his mind off ... things, especially if the lad might be feeling a bit poorly with the after-effects of the drug; sometimes, it took a while to shake the resultant grogginess off. Lifting up his wrist, Kitta tracked the boy's pulse; regular but a fraction slower than she'd have expected for someone of Sherlock's age. Probably the last of the sedative in his system. No doubt he'd sleep a little longer yet. The cooled hot water bottle was on the floor beside the bed; she took it and the empty mug away with her.

Heading back to her own suite to shower and dress, she heard the front door close before she made it down to the kitchen. Pulling out berries and banana from the fridge, Kit thought she'd try some American pancakes, small and sweet and filled with fruit. She nodded. That would set the boy up right, no matter what he felt like for the rest of the day.

As usual, the first she knew of Sherlock's presence was the scraping back of the chair as he settled himself at the table. Turning, she assessed the child for any potential after effects of the night's occurrence.

Nothing. _Not a thing_. Though his eyes seemed a little sleepy still,, there was nothing on the lad's face that suggested he'd had a bad night.

How are you feeling this morning, my dear?" Kit leaned over and poured his a cup of tea as had become their morning ritual. It wasn't enough that he might appear well; she needed to know how _he_ thought he was. "Sleep alright?"

Blowing over the top of the hot liquid, Sherlock frowned faintly. "I had the strangest dream," he said, eventually, putting his cup down. "I dreamed that you and Mycroft came into my room for some reason last night and talked to me about ... something ... but I can't remember what it was," he shrugged, seemingly perfectly happy. "Though I feel a bit sleepy this morning, so p'raps it was one of those dreams that gets you so excited, you don't actually sleep very well," he yawned, still frowning but partially satisfied with his own evaluation of the situation. Though why a dream about Kit and Mycroft would be so exciting as to keep him from sleeping, he had no idea.

Pushing a warmed plate containing a respectable stack of tiny fat little pancakes between them, Kit plonked a bottle of Maple syrup on the table as well. "So all the dream you can remember from last night was that me and Mycroft came to talk to you about something, but you can't remember what it was?" Kit indicated Sherlock's fork beside his plate. "Dig in," she said, doing likewise. "Nothing else you can remember at all?"

"Nope," Sherlock shook his head, then pausing. "Why?" he asked. "Did something happen and I missed it?" What was it?" he stared across the table curiously.

"Nothing," Kitta smiled, shaking her head. No need to add fuel to a smoking fire. "But me and Mycroft both looked in on you last night, so maybe that was what sparked your dream off," Kit poured some syrup over the pancakes.

"Maybe," Sherlock yawned. "I think I'll read one of my books this morning in my room though," he said, toying with his food. "Don't really feel like doing much else."

"Then when you've finished eating, you pop off and do that, lovey, and I'll be down here if you need anything," Kit hesitated. "Mycroft said my belongings from Plymouth would be here today, so there might be a few comings-and-goings, if you felt like taking a bit of a nap."

"Only children have naps," Sherlock scorned, pushing his plate away. "I'm going to do some research on my soldiers to ensure the regimental details are proper and accurate," he said. "So then Mycroft and I know exactly which battles we can fight."

It was only after the boy had gone from the room that Kit allowed a hint of bafflement to show. It was as if nothing at all had happened at all last night ... as if the child had erased the experience completely from his mind. Not that she was bothered terribly much by the idea; it probably saved him a repeat of the upset, but still, it was odd. She shrugged philosophically; Sherlock wasn't like boys his age, that was for certain. Kit made short work of the dishes. If her stuff was arriving today, she'd best make sure everything in her rooms were ready, not that she had much to install, really. She had no idea what she was going to use the spare room for but in the meantime, she could store everything in there until she'd found a home or it.

Sherlock headed directly to the Games Room to collect a few soldiers in their different uniforms so he could catalogue their exact regiment. He stopped short as he spotted the selection of military hats sitting on the edge of the table, a wide grin curving his mouth as he reached out for them. Wishing there was a mirror in here, he decided to carry them all downstairs to his room and try them all on in there.

It was only when he'd moved all the hats that he noticed the small brown leather case lying beneath them. It was immediately clear that it held some sort of musical instrument, but the shape didn't indicate a wind instrument. He wondered where Mycroft had been able to find all these things; they hadn't been up in the attic that he'd seen, although, Sherlock was quick to admit, he'd barely investigated the place, and who knew what else might be up there. Picking up the case in one hand and managing to hold all the hats against his chest with the other, he made his way down the staircase to his room.

At almost the same moment that Sherlock was heading to his room, Mycroft, _enroute_ to his own office, paused his steps in one of the semi-shaded corridors of power that was the ancient institution of the British Government in Whitehall, and checked his Hunter. It was just after ten o'clock, all being well, Sherlock would be up and awake by this time. Pursing his mouth, Mycroft wondered whether to ring Kit and reassure himself on the child's wellbeing, though he didn't want to seem as though he was doubting her ability to cope with Sherlock since that, after all, was the entire reason he'd wanted her to stay. Sighing inwardly, he was about to carry on towards his office when the most curious sensation prickled at the back of his neck. Pausing again, he straightened almost imperceptibly. If there was one faculty he'd refined to an absolute degree in all the long years of his existence, it had been the ability to know, without question, when he was being watched. That feeling was upon him now.

Flicking his gaze forward, there was nothing and no-one in sight. There were none of the new CCTV cameras in here, though he'd often thought it would be a damn fine idea to have the things everywhere; it'd save a lot of lying. So, nothing up ahead, which meant, therefore ... he swivelled instantly on his heel, eyes darting left and right to every side-corridor he'd just passed, of which there were several, as well as a few large and somewhat ornate doors, all closed. But there was nothing in sight, in fact, not only was he the only person out and about in this place at this time, but nor could he hear anything; no conversations, no banging of doors in the distance. It was all perfectly still and quiet and he was entirely alone.

Yet he knew, indisputably, that somebody had been observing him.

And this was not the first time he'd experienced the sensation of being watched. It had happened on and off at varyingly irregular intervals for as long as he could recall, sometime more frequently than others. In the latter half of the nineteenth-century, for example, he'd felt it so often that he'd stopped bothering to note the individual occurrences ... but it hadn't happened for some time now and thus, such renewed interest in him made his skin prickle. He wished he knew why he might be the focus of another person's attention; he had done his level best to remain beneath the radar, as it were, in his current role, always ensuring he held to the shadowy wings rather than centre-stage. Who had been watching him? And why in here, where he was probably at his most secure? A potential assassin? Someone internal, perhaps because of some inter-service rivalry? Either way, it was a little unsettling. Inhaling sharply, he continued on towards his office.

Only after he had long disappeared did one of the ornate doors in the corridor behind him click softly and completely closed, as the hand tight on the door knob was carefully relaxed.

Kit had already cleaned up her own rooms fairly thoroughly. She'd had the windows open for the last couple of days to left the air freshen, even though it was London town air and not proper Cornish breezes blowing through the windows, and that had made a great deal of difference. She had also stripped the bed right down to the hand-made mattress, and everything that could possibly be washed had been so, while everything that could be picked up and shaken clean of dust had likewise been dealt with. All that had been dusty was now gleaming and redolent of lavender. The carpet and rugs had come up a treat with the new vacuum and the newly cleaned glass panes in the windows shone like diamond. Even without all the space in the empty room, there was plenty of room for her to unpack her regular gear, so all she could do now was twiddle her thumbs. Kit didn't have to wait for long.

The front doorbell rang with its now familiar chimes and, descending rapidly down the wide staircase, Kitta held the front door open in a breathless rush.

There was a moderate-sized removalist lorry parked at the kerb. "Yes?" she smiled.

"Delivery for a Miss Penderic," the tall man handed over the ubiquitous clipboard and pen. "From Plymouth," he added. "Sign here please," he pointed to a small blank space. Kitta scribbled her initials.

"Right then, Madam," the man nodded respectfully. "Where would you like us to drop off the manifest?

"Manifest?" Kit wasn't sure what he meant.

"The _goods_ , madam," the man waved towards the wagon.

"Ah. The goods," Kit had never heard anyone consider her bits and pieces as _goods_ before. "Up the stairs to the second floor, first door on the right of the main landing," she said. "There is a small lift for anything particularly heavy," she offered, though she couldn't think of anything she owned that might fall into such a category.

"That won't be necessary," the man smiled yet again, walking back down the front steps to help unbolt the back of the van. "If you could just advise us where you want everything placed?"

"Then follow me," Kit smiled. It would be nice to have her own things, such as they were, around her again.

Though he'd heard the front doorbell ring, Sherlock was far too deep in the investigation of his latest booty to be concerned by what was undoubtedly the arrival of Kit's chattels; she had told him as much over breakfast and he was fairly sure that his assistance would not be needed at this point. Once Kit had everything installed, however, it might be worth a quick visit top her rooms in case there was anything there worth liberating for a more detailed examination. In the meantime, however, all extraneous sound could correctly be ignored in favour of the items of fascination currently resting upon his bed.

Sitting cross-legged, Sherlock took time to examine each of the four hats Mycroft had left for him on the Games Room table. Three of the four were old army hats, while the last one had come from what seemed to be a naval unit of some description. Each one smelled used and showed evidence of quite some wear judging by the marks of wear on the leather and silk linings. Each was constructed in an old-fashioned style, using individual forms and hand-stitching. Each used slightly different materials which had faded incrementally in different places. Though he was certain each of the four military caps were absolutely authentic for their time, each one also provided clear evidence that it had been hand made for the same sized and, even more importantly, the same _shaped_ head. All these hats had been made for the same person, most probably, given their various indicative ranks, a man. How on earth had Mycroft managed to have all of these hats, produced over the course of at least a couple of centuries, in his possession today? The only immediate answer that came to mind was that each hat had been worn, for some time, on identical mannequins in a museum, hence that while the hats were original, the identical head-shape was explained. Why though, would Mycroft have an assortment of old military headwear? If he collected such things, where was his collection? Somewhere in the house he'd not yet seen?

But while that was the obvious solution, it mightn't be the only or even the correct one. It became clear to Sherlock that to arrive at the best, most probable answer, he would need to make a list of all the possible options and eliminate each one as it was proved _impossible_. Whatever was left, he reasoned, after he had shown all the others false, would be the correct answer. Staring for a while longer at the several items of military headgear. He sighed, putting them aside in favour of exploring the contents of the small leather case.

It was quite dusty on the outside, so could easily have been stored up in a part of the attic he had yet to explore. Turning it over in his hands, he could see by the colour on the top of the case opposed to that on the bottom, that it had faded quite significantly, thus it had been resting in daylight at some point in its existence. The shape was conventional, as were the clasps, which he lifted open carefully and slowly. Inside, lined with barely-faded, olive-green velvet, was the most lovely violin he had ever seen.

The bow hairs on the main bow clipped inside the lid had disintegrated almost completely, but he saw there was a second bow, which needed only a slight tightening to become usable. The violin itself sat very snugly within the case's curved inner moulded shape, the polished wooden body a curious greeny-yellow against the dramatic black wood of the instrument's neck. The tuning-pegs at the top were black, as were the f-holes and tailpiece. It was nothing like any violin he could recall seeing before, certainly nothing he'd seen this close up.

 _And Mycroft had left it for him?_ By the slight wear on the chin piece and the faint residual finger-marks along the fingerboard, he was fairly certain this had last been played by a right-handed adult, the size and spacing of the fingerprints suggesting that this was not last held or played, by a child. Had this instrument belonged to Mycroft? Had it been something to which he had turned before changing to the piano? It was a full-sized instrument, not a child's toy, but the golden-green colour of the tinted wood and the dark highlights made it feel ... old, for some reason, as if it had been sitting in that case for a great many years. Sherlock wished he knew more about musical instruments; such knowledge might come in very useful. He would find the nearest library and see what books they had on the manufacture of stringed construction.

Not really knowing how to hold the thing, he nevertheless tucked the chin piece into the appropriate place, just to get a feel for the wood next to his skin. Fortunately, even at nine, he already had fairly long arms and fingers for his age, so the violin sat very comfortably beneath his jaw; almost as if it had been made for him. He allowed his fingertips to trace the still-taut strings running all the way up the narrowing neck of the thing, right up to the black wooden pegs at the top. It felt okay, better than okay, actually. _Perhaps he didn't need to try the oboe or the flute, in that case_. Perhaps the strange green violin was what he needed to learn first; it certainly fitted his desire that any musical instrument he might consider be portable and easy to learn, for surely something with only four strings couldn't be _that_ hard to master. Carefully, he drew the remaining bow across the fingerboard, but the bow hairs were too dry to resonate and he had no idea what he needed in order to make it grip properly. Relinquishing the smooth rounded contours of the instrument from under his chin, Sherlock returned it to its home; he'd need to find out about the care and maintenance of the thing if he were going to play it properly, he realised. Perhaps he might find someone who could tell him how old it was and where it had come from.

It had taken the removalists no more than twenty minutes to bring all her belongings up to the suite; Kit had known her worldly good hadn't been up to much, though it was only when she saw them arrayed in her new quarters that she realised just how worn and shabby they'd become. Some of her clothes were suitable for wearing around the house, and there were several things she could keep for wearing when she did any mucky work, but the rest of the stuff, what she had previously considered her _good_ stuff, was just old and worn and dull, dull, dull. Making up her mind, Kitta nodded to herself. All this old stuff could go to rags for cleaning; she had an entire sewing room she could use to do all sorts of things in now, so no point worrying about where she might keep things there was more spare room in this house than she'd ever be able to use. And when she got her pay, whatever that might be, though she didn't think Mycroft was the sort to try and short-change her, then she might be able to go out and start replenishing her wardrobe, after all, she was living in London now; people dressed a little smarter in the Capital.

Reaching down into a small cardboard box that contained some of her knick-knacks, Kit's fingers found a smooth cold object of irregular shape, about the size of a grapefruit, but with flattened sides, almost a cube. Pulling it into the light, she felt the weight of the thing which was significant, given its general dimensions. _Stone_. Stone that had been polished smooth either by water or machine, she thought; not easy to get that almost soft skin on a stone otherwise. Lifting it into the light, Kit saw that it was a polished chunk of Cornish granite; something that might easily have come from any of the cliffs or gorges anywhere in the county. One side of the rock felt somewhat flatter than the others and she turned it in her fingers in the light, finally able to see an esoteric symbol carved deeply into the stone itself, though even the edges of the carving were smooth and tactile. The carving looked like three long flower petals, joined at the centre, with a complete circle bisecting all three petals at their midpoint. It was a piece of art, no doubt, and something that felt both very old and vaguely familiar, something from a time that was long, long before they had polishing machines. Kit had no idea how this thing had come to be the way it was, nor did she have the slightest notion how it had ended up in a box of her _goods_. She was certain she'd not had it in her flat in Plymouth, so how on earth had it come to be in the box? Oh well, if it had simply been misplaced and someone came looking for it, she'd keep it handy. Walking across to the mantelpiece about the fireplace, she put it next to the vase of flowers she'd placed there yesterday. Turning back to the rest of her unpacking, Kit almost immediately forgot about the thing.

Mycroft returned home at what was, by now becoming something of his regular time. It had felt odd to leave Whitehall so early that first day, and odder still to repeat the event on consecutive evenings, but now that he knew there was indeed a very good reason for him to do so, closing his office door behind him before midnight seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to do. He'd not phoned Kit at all, despite several times experiencing a strong urge to do so; no point making a difficult situation worse. He wondered vaguely if he'd disappointed her by giving into his fears for Sherlock the previous night. He sighed internally. He had a lot to learn about parenting, that was certain.

Apart from all the administrative trivia he'd driven through during the day, the one point of real interest had come when he'd spoken with the headmaster of the Eaton Square School on the telephone about Sherlock's possible enrolment. Though phone-conversations were limited conveyors of data, Mycroft ascertained that the man was in his late thirties, married, with two young sons; watched the BBC preferring BBC2 as well as, most likely, Radio Four; had studied the classics at one of the major universities, Reading, possibly; had served briefly in one of the armed services, most probably the RAF and, at one time, had crewed on a large boat, perhaps even a luxury yacht. The man, Edward Townsend, was also amiable, most likely pleasant to look upon and undoubtedly had been born in a coastal town somewhere on the North-east coast of the country. Nothing spectacular, but then, Mycroft didn't suppose headmasters needed to be these days. They had spoken at length about Sherlock's situation until Townsend offered to take both Guardian and Ward around the school on a personal tour. The mad had even agreed to conduct the tour the following evening, Mycroft citing pre-booked government meetings from which he simply could not excuse himself.

He and Sherlock were due at the school the following evening at six o'clock.

But now he had arrived home and, as had happened every night this week so far, the moment he unlocked and opened the heavy front door, Mycroft felt again the unexpected pleasure of having a _family_ waiting for him. The perfume of Kit's flowers had matured and now filled the halls, as did a more recent yet underlying fragrance of furniture polish and ... he sniffed ... floor wax. He smiled; his usual cleaning company would have to look to their laurels if they were to do a more professional job than his newly-acquired Housekeeper.

Greeting them in the kitchen as was apparently to be the routine, Mycroft noted with a hidden smile that Sherlock had certainly found the hats to his liking, judging by the fact that he was wearing the most elaborate, gold-braided one at the kitchen table while he dined. Stretching out a long arm, he lifted the cap from the boy's head and laid it on the table beside his plate. "No gentleman wears his hat to the dinner table," he said. "Simply not done." Smiling, Mycroft went to pick up the small silver tray Kit had prepared for him, wondering what accompaniments she'd considered suitable for this evening's delectation. Tonight, he observed, there was mint and pineapple, both garnishes finely shredded into a small bowl, their combined fresh scent and enticing.

"If you hadn't qualified as a nurse, I can think of at least one very reputable bar right here in London which would be pleased to offer you a position in their cocktail lounge," he said, filling a glass with ice and garnish and then the freezing vodka. Sherlock reached over and stole an ice-cube from the small silver bucket, using it to draw squiggles on the wooden tabletop.

"Plenty of time for all manner of things," Kit smiled into her cup of tea and picked up her reading glasses to see what Sherlock was doing. "I may take that up as my next career for all you know."

"And you, Sherlock," Mycroft stared at the child as if to extract every jot of information from the boy's facial expression, "are coming out with me tomorrow evening," he added. "To have a little chat with the man who may become your headmaster."

"Okay," Sherlock ran the ice in repeated circular movements, clearly with a specific design in mind. Looking down at the darkened lines of water on the pale wood, Mycroft froze.

"That symbol," he said, slowly. "Where have you seen it?"

"This?" Sherlock looked up, smiling. "It's on a piece of stone Kit put on her mantelpiece today when she was unpacking," he said. "Why?"

"And just what were you doing in my room?" Kit peered at the boy over the top of her specs, turning to make a smart comment to Mycroft about certain people being nosey parkers when the unexpected pallor on the man's face stopped her cold.


	13. in which there are plans and revelations.

 

"What on earth's the matter?" Kit took in Mycroft's stricken appearance and felt her skin grow cold. It was not an expression one saw every day, almost as if he'd just seen a ...

For once, Mycroft had no ready response. He'd never thought to see that particular symbol in this house again. The unexpected nature of its appearance had ... unsettled him, somewhat. He took a sharp breath and cleared his throat. "It's a very old Celtic sign for eternity," he said, a fleeting smile passing over his face. "You'll find it on many of the ancient Cornish dolmen and menhirs," he added, his features returning to a normal set as he forced himself to relax. "It's a typical, old-Celtic adornment; used to see it a lot on armour and on religious artefacts, that sort of thing."

Sherlock had been paying very close attention to Mycroft's explanation and decided there was more to this than met the eye. He looked down at the rapidly-drying design he'd sketched on the tabletop with the ice. Yes, it was far too regular a design to be incidental and abstract; it would have to have meant something to whomever created it, and the idea that it stood for eternal life made some kind of sense, with the circles and the three equidistant petals and everything; many ancient cultures had symbols for infinity, for example. But what interested him more than his explanation, had been the look on Mycroft's face. It had not been a very happy look. Sherlock made a note to add a tome on Celtic symbolism to his book-list for the new library. Whenever he found which library was the nearest. Which reminded him.

"The hats are brilliant," he said, _apropos_ of nothing in particular. "But where were they? I didn't see anything like them in the attic," he paused, thinking. "And where did the violin come from?" he asked. "It's been kept in at least two different places; one light and one dark. It was coated in too much dust for it to have been properly covered up, but not sufficiently dusty to have been left out without a cover in the attic with everything else," he said. "This is strange," he looked the man in the eye. "Do you have another room in the house where you keep collections of things?"

So soon? _Only a week and_ _Sherlock was already beginning to ask awkward questions_. Mycroft realised he had to head off such inquiries at the pass, as it were. He'd think of some way to deal with the longer problem later.

"I don't believe I've had an opportunity to show you my library yet, have I?" he prevaricated, smiling now that the conversation had opportunely changed direction. "I've shown Kit, but you were asleep at the time, and we've been busy since then."

"You have a proper library _here?_ " his mind suddenly and utterly devoid of anything else, Sherlock couldn't help his eyes going wide at the thought. "With books on soldiers and armies and other things as well? Is that where the hats came from? Can I see? Can we go and see right now?"

Mycroft was rather more interested in taking a look at the stone Kit had brought with her from Plymouth, especially since it seemed somewhat coincidental that such a symbol was already located ... elsewhere in the house. But to ask for sight of the relic in front of the boy would be to reignite his uncommon interest, and that was something Mycroft preferred to avoid for the moment. He sighed inwardly. He'd take Sherlock into the Library and speak to Kit later. Catching her attention, he lifted his eyebrows in query. "Is Sherlock finished with dinner?"

"I'd like him to come and have some hot chocolate before he goes to bed tonight; make him sleep better," she said, meeting the sudden flicker of surprise in Mycroft's eyes. He'd completely forgotten about the boy's nightmare. "He was feeling a little sleepy this morning on account of not having slept too well last night," she continued in a tone that denoted not simply information but a forewarning as well. "But since our young man here couldn't recall why he didn't sleep too well, then I think a nice hot cup of chocolate before he goes to bed will be just the thing."

"A wise plan," Mycroft once again felt momentarily at something of a loss. The last thing he wanted to do was to bring up the topic of Sherlock's wretched experience of the previous night, yet it seemed ... impossibly ... that Kit was suggesting the child hadn't remembered anything about it. Could it be? Maintaining a neutral expression, Mycroft transferred his gaze back to Sherlock who was now standing beside his chair on his toes. The blatant eagerness in the boy's entire stance was so obvious that Mycroft couldn't help the smiled that curved his mouth. "Come with me then," he rested a hand gently on Sherlock's shoulder. "As long as you remember to remind me to come back here for your hot drink before you go to bed," he said. "Otherwise, I shall be in serious trouble with Miss Penderic, and I am already learning such a fate is best avoided."

"Promise," Sherlock nodded instantly. "Now where is your library hidden?" he asked. "It has to be down on this floor because I've looked everywhere else."

"Including in my room, apparently, young man," Kit peered at him down her nose. "And don't you think we won't be having a little chat about that at some point."

"Best go before she changes her mind," Sherlock stage-whispered. "These Foreigners from strange lands can be a bit odd when they get to London."

Keeping a straight face, Mycroft looked down at the veritably cherubic air of the child's face. Had Sherlock but known that Cornwall was his Guardian's own birthplace, a very long time ago, he might have paused for thought. If Sherlock deemed Cornwall a foreign place, what would he consider the eternity of time Mycroft had already lived? A foreigner indeed; things were definitely different where he came from.

"An equally wise plan," he whispered back. "Let's make good our escape and return when she's had more tea; it's supposed to have a notably calming effect."

"Away with the pair of you," Kitta stood, not bothering to mask her good mood. "Or I'll expect you to stack this dishwasher and do the rest of the pots by hand."

In silence, Sherlock grabbed Mycroft's hand and towed him through the kitchen door. Dishwashing was beyond the pale, especially when there was a real possibility of getting to see some proper books. He hoped very much Mycroft had some history texts; there were a lot of things he wanted to look up. Following the tall man down and along the passage through the dining room and beyond. On the left was the entrance to the Drawing Room and to the right, down the same short passageway Mycroft taken Kit only a few days earlier, was the set of tall double-doors.

With his hands resting on the handles, Mycroft looked over his shoulder at the child. "Every single thing inside this room is old and special," he said. "I would very much appreciate it if you would treat my Library and all its contents with respect; some of these books are the only extant copies and cannot be replaced," he said. "Can you comprehend how important that makes them?"

"Like the soldiers," Sherlock murmured softly, nodding. "Each one's different from all the others, but there's only one. Yes, I promise to be careful with everything."

Mycroft smiled; he had known the boy would understand. "Then, welcome to my library, Sherlock Holmes," he said, pushing the doors open wide and flicking on the lights at the same time, just as he had for Kit. But whereas the woman had simply stood, stunned at the sight, Sherlock ran inside, his entire body turning slowly in a great sweeping arc as he observed and absorbed the entirety of the spectacle. Books, _thousands and thousands of books_. Everywhere, from the floor right up to the very high ceiling of the great room, everywhere he turned his gaze, nothing but books. A vast cave of books, a _forest_ of them.

And then Sherlock saw the nearest of the four white marble lions sitting guard at the corners of the room, each one almost twice his height. The desire to climb the creature's back and view the marvels around him from such a perch was nearly unendurable, but he had _promised_ Mycroft he would treat everything in the Library with respect and his mother had been very firm about the keeping of one's promises. It was then he spotted the two black iron staircases, one at each on the corners flanking the room's entrance. Without another second's hesitation, he turned right and ran full-tilt across the glowing floor, scrambling up and around the curves of the staircase as if he were more squirrel than boy. Reaching the topmost landing, Sherlock turned to stare out across the huge room and everything in it, his face one massive grin. This was surely heaven. Looking at Mycroft waiting just inside the open doors, hands in his trouser pockets, Sherlock waved. "I can see everything from up here," he called down. "It's like a crow's nest."

"Then, Captain Sherlock," Mycroft's tone was mild and amused. "Do you want to climb down the rigging and have a look at the ship's treasure?"

Torn between staying up here and delighting in the wonderful view, or relinquishing his bird's-eye post for some _real_ exploration, Sherlock screwed up his face, but ran down the stairs, not stopping his headlong pelt until he stood once again at Mycroft's side. "Show me _everything_ ," he demanded. "Please."

Laughing, Mycroft rested fingertips on the boy's shoulder, turning him back to face the wall to the left-hand side of the doors. This was the place where his great collection began, in thematic groupings having nothing to do with Dewey's proprietary library classification, and rather more to do with his own preferred reference-system. "We start here," he said, wondering how long it would take the child to work out the idiosyncratic classification system it had taken Mycroft years – _decades_ – to create and complete. With his eyes darting this way and that and back, Sherlock was only able to start taking in the lowest level of books, though he had already noticed the sliding ladders which offered some interesting possibilities all of their own.

"Where are the books on soldiers?" the boy asked, his eyes flicking from one ancient book cover to the next. What little writing he could make out was either hand-printed or in Latin.

"It's not that kind of a library, Sherlock," Mycroft strode off down toward the far wall beneath the long windows. "If you want a reference library, you're going to have to start one of your own," he said, pulling down a large and very heavy tome which he carried into the centre of the room and laid very gently on a series of shaped and padded book-supports on a low table. Slipping into a fine pair of white cotton gloves, he used both hands to open up the solidly heavy front cover to reveal the most magnificent gold-leaf and hand-illustrated images and printing inside.

"This is actually an old psalm," he said. "The only people really able to do much reading at the time this book was created were either monks in monasteries or some very wealthy prince," he said, lifting the next page and turning it over with immense gentleness. "You can see the pictures in here of the size of the armies and the military uniforms of the day though," he added, smiling a little as the intent expression on the boy's face as he absorbed the entire picture. "But not quite the kind of books I think you were hoping to find in here, perhaps."

"Not quite," Sherlock shook his head. "But much more special," he looked up, grinning.

Mycroft found himself experiencing a most peculiar sensation in his chest, as if something was winding itself tight around his body. That the child was so taken with his books, even though they were not what he'd hoped to see, warmed him in a way he was at a loss to describe.

"If I learn Latin, may I read some of your books?" Sherlock sat up, looking around at the great number of glass cases about him, each containing something of enormous and unique antiquity.

"Would you like to learn Latin at school?" Mycroft wondered if the Eaton Square establishment provided such tuition.

"No, _silly_ ," Sherlock grinned again. "You'll have to teach me," he said, then pausing. "If you don't mind, of course."

Another wave of the strange sensation washed over and through him and Mycroft wondered if it were actually possible for a vampire to contract a virus and become ill. Even though he had known the child since his birth and had believed to know the boy well enough, the last week had proven him entirely incorrect. Mycroft nodded slowly as he gathered his wits about him. "It would be my privilege," he said softly. "And what I think may be another good idea is to start setting you up with a library of your own," he said. "How would you like that?"

Sherlock felt his chest was going to explode. "A library for my very own books?" he tasted the idea. "With books _I_ can choose to have ... any books at all?"

"Within reason," Mycroft smiled again. "Yes, of course. We can turn the old school room into your library; it's a good enough size for the time being, don't you think?"

A room for playing games ... his own library ... a new school ... it was all a little much and Sherlock had to swallow, his throat becoming unusually tight. He nodded quickly, dashing a hand over his eyes. "S'good," he mumbled.

By the time he had returned from replacing the book back on its shelf, Mycroft was glad to see the boy had regained his composure. He wasn't at all ready yet to have to deal with such a flurry of unexpected and, frankly, difficult emotional sensations and he needed time to deconstruct their rationale and effect. But neither did he want the child to feel uncherished or alone as he began to establish his new life. It was going to be a learning process for the both of them apparently; only Kit seemed unfazed by the whole thing. But then, it would probably take a giant meteor falling directly on London to rattle the woman's imperturbability.

"There are pens and paper here, Sherlock," Mycroft pointed them out as he got up to pour himself a glass of scotch. "Why don't you begin making a list of the kind of books you'd like to start with and I can procure some book-lists for you to look through; see what new publications meet your requirements?"

"Brilliant!" Sherlock folded himself down on the floor beside the table and started writing what was clearly going to be a very long list. Mycroft sipped his drink and smiled in modest delight. He'd ask Jude to arrange the same firm of joiners to come in, fit up the empty room for shelves, and create, perhaps, a decent-sized desk for the boy; he'd probably need a place to read and write if he were going to commence school soon. And on _that_ note ...

"I spoke with a Mr Townsend this afternoon," he said. "He's the Head of the school I mentioned in Eaton Square. He'd very much like to meet you," he added, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Assuming you've no objection, I've arranged for us to be given a tour of the school tomorrow evening; I'll ask Kit to organise an early dinner for you."

"If I absolutely _must_ go ..." Sherlock lifted his eyes away from the growing list beneath his hand. There was the faintest suggestion of a question in his voice.

"As you must," Mycroft kept his expression mild, but felt a distinct urge to smile again.

"Then if I _must_ ," Sherlock nodded, returning to his dream library. "I suppose this place will be as productive as the next."

"At least it has the advantage of being with easy walking distance of this house," Mycroft inspected his nails. "And the school does appear to have a most vigorous science program, which I'm fairly sure will be to your liking."

"We'll see," Sherlock muttered, then stopped completely. "Did you leave the violin for me to try?" he asked. "I've never touched one before; I have no idea at all how to make them work."

"One doesn't make a violin _work_ , Sherlock," Mycroft leaned back in his deeply comfortable chair. "One learns how to make the violin _sing_. I'm certain there will be someone in the school more than happy to assist you."

"As long as there's someone who knows something about chemistry, I'll be happy," the boy paused in the writing of his list. "How many 'O's in Spectrophotography?" he screwed up his face in thought.

"I estimate three," Mycroft put his glass down. "And you really do need to stay out of Miss Penderic's rooms you know, Sherlock. A gentleman never enters a lady's chambers without the clearest of invitations."

Pausing his list once again, Sherlock tipped his head to one side, thinking. "Have you ever wanted to be married, Mycroft?"

In an instant, he was back in a field beside the river where he had been born. He remembered the skylarks.

 _Are we to be married, Mycurrought?_ Beryan always laughed when she was in a teasing mood. _My father has been waiting for you to speak since harvest time_ , she said, spinning around him as he sat on the old tree-stump. He had watched her dancing and spiralling around him as some midsummer whirlwind full of sunshine and happiness, and Mycurrought felt his body ache for her. Beryan was tall and slim with skin smoother than a river-pebble and hair the gold of early autumn leaves. Her eyes were as pale as the blue cornflowers that hugged the hedgerows and the lilt of her voice made him shiver inside. Throwing out an arm, he caught her as she strayed too close, bringing her into the circle of his embrace as his mouth found hers and his fingers wove themselves into her unbraided hair.

"Would you be mine if I spoke for you?" he asked her, his voice barely steady as the heat of her skin and the thin linen tunic did nothing to disguise the swell of her breasts and the curve of her waist in his arms. If he didn't already have a very strong respect for Beryan's right fist, not to mention her bite, he'd have been tempted to tumble them both down into the long cool grass at their feet and wrap her around him until her laughter turned into cries of love. "Though I have nothing yet to offer your father for our matching," he whispered against her throat as she clung to him.

"I care naught for that," Beryan was as wild a fighter as any woman he knew; Mycurrought had seen her gut a man with a bare blade after he'd tried to drag her off and had not taken her _no_ as an acceptable response. "I care only for you and for what time we might have together in this world," she laughed again, lifting up the double thickness of coarse homespun wrapped around her hips and legs as she read his mind and dragged him down to the grass.

He should resist, he knew he should, but the day was warm and Beryan wanted him and life was terribly short in these days of trouble and death. Mycurrought lay back and let her use his body for her own pleasure as well as his, the heat of the woman so incredible that he gasped as she sank herself down onto him, the heaviness in his loins a deep pulse of desire and need. He could not stop his groans of pleasure as she leaned forward and trapped his mouth beneath hers, just as her softness entrapped his fiercely hard response. Closing his eyes and listening to the skylarks and Beryan's increasingly erratic breath, his hands moved to her hips to hold her steady as she took him in the long grass on this last of the summer days.

The Romans attacked just after nightfall, the village burned and slaves taken. Mycurrought had managed to form up a small fighting force to protect the few fleeing survivors, but Beryan hadn't been one of them. He'd never discovered if she'd been slain as a fighter or taken as captive, though the former seemed more likely than the latter.

He blinked slowly and shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. "No, Sherlock" he said, softly. "Never married, which, given my somewhat eccentric lifestyle is probably all for the good," he added, taking out his Hunter and looking at the time. "I think Kit will be about ready to make you that hot drink about now," he said. "Shall we go?"

Kitta already had the milk heating as the boy came and sat in his usual chair. "Mycroft's taking me to see the school in Eaton Square tomorrow evening at six," he said "Are you coming too?"

Shaking her head, Kit smiled. "There's some things you two are going to have to decide between you," she said. "Besides, I have no plan to listen to all your complaints when you've got homework to do."

"Homework?" Sherlock stilled and looked uncertain. "Is this compulsory?"

Laughing, Kit looked around as Mycroft entered the kitchen. "Young'un here wants to know if school homework is compulsory," she laughed again, stirring the fragrant chocolate powder into the mug. "Try this," she handed it over. "Sip it slowly, then off you go up to bed and get a good night's rest. No reading any exciting stories tonight, neither," she added. Turning to Mycroft, she looked at her excellent new watch. "I suggest you see him to bed and maybe just talk to him a bit quiet, like," she said. "Nothing to get him excited; just enough to get him sleepy."

Nodding, Mycroft lifted a small book in his hand. "I thought I might read to him a little," he said. "I've been told I have a voice than sends some into a coma."

"You have a very fair voice," Kit sniffed. "Very manly and pleasant," she said. "Educated," she added. "Specially for one who comes out of the West," she grinned. "What's the book?"

He held it up for her to read. _Aristotle: Father of Early Science_.

"A right page-turner that'll be," Kit turned back to the kettle. "Fancy a cup of tea?" she asked, turning on the tap.

"Later, perhaps," Mycroft watched Sherlock finishing his bedtime drink. "Ready?"

Nodding, the boy headed for the door. " _Night_ , Kit," he called over his shoulder.

"Night, my lover," Kit poured boiling water onto the dried leaves and hoped he'd have a more peaceful night this time.

Apparently, the gods of sleep were listening.

After an event-free night and a day back up in the attic rummaging around for possible war games accessories, Sherlock presented himself back down in the kitchen for inspection after his shower and an early tea.

"You needs a haircut, my lad," Kit combed the dark waving locks back from the boy's face with her fingers. "Want me to do it, or do you want to go somewhere posh; I'm sure Mycroft will know all manner of posh places."

"I usually just cut it off with scissors," Sherlock wriggled as Kit straightened his collar and tie and adjusted his dark blazer. Not the school colours, but there'd be plenty of time for the getting of uniforms if that was the way things went.

"Not no more you won't," Kit frowned. "If you don't want to go to the barbers, then I can do a better job for you right here," she said. "Though you'd best check with Mycroft on what he thinks," she paused. "He's proper careful with things like that, he is."

Looking at Kit's old watch still adorning his thin wrist, Sherlock felt a wave of impatience wash over him. "What time did Mycroft say he'd be here?"

The main phone in the hallway rang

"Best get that," Kit smiled. "Might be for you."

Running down the passageway, Sherlock remembered how he'd heard Kit answer the phone. " _Holmes residence_ ," he chirped.

"Outside, in the car, Sherlock," Mycroft's voice was calm but directive. "Then we may go."

" _Going now!_ " Sherlock shouted back to Kit in the kitchen as he replaced the phone in the receiver. "Be back later."

Dragging the big front door closed behind him, even in the growing dusk, Sherlock easily recognised the waiting black car in which his guardian was habitually driven. The rear door opened for him and he slid in, not bothering to mask his growing excitement. He'd never been to a school before.

"You need a haircut," Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. "I shall have an appointment made for you in the chair of Mr Reginald Charles of Jermyn Street," he said. "Barber extraordinaire and old friend," he added. "And coincidentally," he continued, staring forward, "directly opposite a most well-stocked branch of Waterstones, purveyors of fine books and Literatures."

"Are you trying to bribe me into having my hair cut?" Sherlock sounded curious.

"Not in the least," Mycroft kept his eyes forward. "Your hair will be cut regardless, but the thought occurred that an opportunity to begin collecting for your own library might be a happy coincidence."

The Jaguar was already drawing to a gentle halt outside a tall sandstone-coloured building, very much like Mycroft's own house in general shape and size, though Sherlock saw that the house in Pall Mall was definitely bigger. The wide blue front door with a large brass plaque on the left hand side. At Mycroft's knock, it was swiftly opened by a smiling young woman.

"Please come in," she said. "My name is Amanda Sully, I'm Mr Townsend's Executive Assistant," she assessed them professionally. "The Headmaster will see you in his office, if you'll just follow me?" Turning, she led the way down a wide, stone-tiled floor that ran the length of the building towards the rear. The structure was much larger that Sherlock had expected and he realised that this building either spanned the entire block and had an exit in the street behind, or it encompassed at least two separate buildings. Either way, it was a big place.

Edward Townsend was a tall, fair-haired man with a welcoming smile and a firm handshake. "I don't usually do this," he addressed Mycroft after indicating that his guests should sit while retaking his own seat behind the desk. "But your assistant made it very clear that your time was not your own and that if Her Majesty wanted you in a meeting, you could hardly refuse."

Smiling urbanely, Mycroft seemed unperturbed. "They also serve who only stand and wait," he murmured.

"Milton?" Townsend, nodded, acknowledging their mutual situation. "I too have duties beyond my ability to direct, at times," he shrugged. "But we all do what we may," he turned his attention to Sherlock who was staring around the office, taking in the books, the framed testamurs and the various academic detritus filling the shelves around the walls. "Good evening, Sherlock," he sought the boy's attention.

Returning his wandering gaze to the face of the blond-haired man looking at him so appraisingly, Sherlock did some evaluating of his own.

_Has travelled a lot, especially to Eastern Europe. Has a big pet dog, probably a Golden Retriever or a Labrador, or even a Siberian Husky given the man's obsession with everything Russian and the fact there were several light-coloured dog hairs around the base of the desk. Speaks at least three languages including Russian; is left-handed and keeps a bottle of alcohol in the lower left-hand drawer of his desk, probably vodka. What's a common Russian name for a dog? Married. Traditional in his habits, probably doesn't like his students watching too much television or listening to popular music. Bit of a fuddy-duddy._

"Mr Townsend," he said, nodding thoughtfully. "How often do you bring … _Dima_ to school? I like dogs."

Judging by the sudden stillness in the man's face, the narrowing of his eyes and the sharp tilt of his eyebrows, his stab at the dog's name had been right on the money.

"Now Sherlock," Mycroft's tone was mild. "Have the courtesy to allow Mr Townsend to tell you about his pair of Russian Laika before you start asking personal questions," he said.

 _Pair?_ Sherlock's eyes flicked down to the desk corners. Ah yes; two dark hairs on the opposing corner. _Dima and …?_

"Nikita, I assume?" Mycroft linked his fingers across his lap. "Lovely creatures, Laika."

"Have we met before?" Townsend looked and sounded confused. "I thought this was the first time of introduction for all of us."

"As indeed it is, Headmaster," Mycroft offered another of his bland smiles. "But the fact you have brought both dogs to this office within the last week is a fact not difficult to discern," he smiled again. "Sherlock has never attended a school before; I wonder if you'd be so kind as to enlighten him as to some of the normal routines and expectations?"

Still feeling somewhat unsettled, Townsend launched into what both Holmes' males could tell was the man's usual spiel, though Sherlock was fairly transfixed by most of it, despite its mundanity. _Classes in Calculus? Science Fairs? Talks with famous scientists?_ The boy felt a grin creep over his face and couldn't help it.

Mycroft, on the other hand, felt he could have read all this from the school's Annual Report. "Perhaps an outline of the academic expectations? The examinations and preparation for higher education?" Mycroft might never have attended school either, but he felt sure he was asking the proper questions.

Leaning forward on his desk, a wide smile lighting up his face, the Eaton Square headmaster launched into an enthusiastic rendition of his school's brilliance over the preceding twelve months. It sounded both invigorating and genuine. By the time he'd completed the itinerary of the school's accomplishments, Sherlock was feeling a great deal more enthusiastic. He didn't even mind the idea of a uniform, although plebeian, it was to be anticipated.

And then there was the compulsory tour of the premises, encompassing classrooms and laboratories and study rooms _et al_. The Chemistry Labs clawed at Sherlock's desire to try everything out, but he managed, somehow, to keep his hands firmly in his pockets.

"Questions, Sherlock?" Mycroft leaned forward to catch his eye.

He had a millions questions and absolutely none at all. "When can I start?" he asked.

Above his head, the two adults exchanged restrained smiles of success.

Judging the visit to have been a triumph, Mycroft allowed his hand to rest on Sherlock's shoulder as they stood, once again on the doorstep. About to offer a congratulatory comment about the beginning of his formal education, Mycroft stopped, frighteningly aware that the gaze of the unknown observer was upon him once again. Staring out, into the darkness, he wondered who could possibly be watching him.


	14. in which there are spies and there are spies.

 

Suddenly realising if he was the target of observation, that standing on the top of five steps, neatly framed by the school's doorway was perhaps not the most sensible of locations, Mycroft ushered Sherlock down and into the car. Had he been alone, he would have attempted to pinpoint the source of surveillance, possibly even try and apprehend the person or persons responsible. One of the less-used aspects of his vampiric state was, when necessary, the ability to initiate a respectable turn of speed and he could likely have made it across the street before his watcher had noticed him move. The speed didn't last long but it had been sufficient in the past to facilitate a few handy exits. Leaving Sherlock to return home alone, however, would be good for neither of them ... and besides, he had other tracking methods he might use.

"I'm returning to my office for a while," he told the boy after seeing him safely through the front door of the Pall Mall house. "Go and ask Kit if she wants you to do anything before bedtime, and continue with your booklist," he smiled. "If I'm not back before you go to bed, I'll most likely see you tomorrow at dinner. We can talk about the school and see if you've had any further thoughts on the matter," he paused, looking down at the boy. "Goodnight, Sherlock." Without waiting for a reply, Mycroft turned and walked back down the steps to the car which pulled silently away and out into the night.

Frowning in slight puzzlement, Sherlock did as he was bid, heading into the kitchen where Kit's old radio was playing one of the Capitol stations. There was an appetising smell in the air.

"Mycroft decided to go back to his office," he said, sniffing appreciatively. "He told me to ask if there was anything you wanted me to do," he added, swivelling until he'd located the source of the delectable aroma. "Is there?"

"You hungry?" Kitta wanted to make sure an early dinner would be enough to last the boy until breakfast time. "I've been experimenting with this new mixer-thing and some of them ingredients those nice young people from Selfridges left in the pantry," she indicated the Bright red KitchenAid stand mixer. "It came with a whole book of recipes for what Americans call 'cookies'," she added, indicating several trays of cooling, biscuit-looking things that smelled most appealing. Sherlock could make out the scent of almond and chocolate and apple. As it happened, he wasn't actually hungry at all ... but the scent was beguiling.

Kit laughed at the expression on his face. "I'll make us both some cocoa," she said, "and you can try some of these biscuits and tell me all about the new school," she smiled. Getting the child used to eating more regularly would not be a bad thing and a treat every now and again did nobody no harm. Curious though, that Mycroft hadn't returned with the lad; she had imagined he'd have been as full of the experience as was Sherlock.

Mycroft had wasted little time when he entered the dimmed-out premises of his own particular department in Whitehall, and made his way unerringly towards the brand-new CCTV viewing and recording room. Since the Harrods's bombings in 1983, it had been permanently staffed around the clock, and Mycroft had made it his home away from home, despite it being more of a technical environment, he had discovered these new CCTV cameras to be highly effective little spies. If he had his way _and_ , he promised himself, _he would_ ... then the whole of central London would be decked out in the things in the next ten years. Sadiq Marri, the on-duty technical analyst was in the process of reviewing and storing the last 12-hours' worth of tape. All recorded materials would be conserved for six-months, after which it would be deleted to allow for fresher recordings. Mycroft couldn't wait until someone like IBM came up with a more substantial form of video-storage; JDR were already experimenting with computer memory of over 4,000 kilobytes, though the price for such extensive memory was still very high. Rumour had it that Unitex were already assembling a ten megabyte RAM memory, but rumour was all he had heard. And to keep all these endless hours of recorded television signals, the government needed to invest in the right kind of technology. If the commercial world was already making inroads into the problem of long-term data storage, then there had to be some military project somewhere doing the same thing, and probably on a much larger scale. He made a note to speak to the Americans on this issue in the morning. To keep Britain safe in these troubled times, technology was, in fact, the most cost-effective way to go. But for tonight, his interest was engaged with something other than national security.

"Pull up the last two hours from any camera in or around Eccleston Square," he said. "Particularly anything capturing activity along the north edge of the gardens," he added.

"It won't be easy to spot much, sir," Sadiq looked thoughtful. "Right on the cusp of darkness, the street lights would only just have begun switch on, but there probably wouldn't have been enough true daylight left to make out a lot of details; I'll do my best, but I'm not sure I can promise you much."

"Do what you can to get me whatever's available. Let me know when you've cued up the feed and send it through to my office, if you would."

"Certainly, Mr Holmes," the man bent to his task as Mycroft headed deeper into the windowless fortress that housed his team of special analysts, agents and, of course, himself.

Back in his office, he sank into his classic, black-leather Eames director's chair, holding a discreet pride-of-place not so much because it was incredibly comfortable, which it was, but mainly because it was a beautiful piece of design. A significant number of years before, as soon, in fact, as money had ceased being a problem for him, Mycroft had maintained his decision to purchase and use only those things that were of the highest quality, applying that maxim to every part of his existence, including his working environment. His current headquarters here in Whitehall met all the usual office-type requirements, but even more than that, he was privately amused by the way the rest of his people seemed to appreciate the things he'd done to keep the place comfortable for _himself_ , to make it, in fact, into a perfect vampire-den. It was internal and relatively subterranean, which meant it was both bomb-proof and avoided any form of natural light. Most people thought Mycroft arranged things this way to ensure the safety and security of everyone who worked in his department, thus being a member of the Holmes team carried a certain intangible _cachet_ , even in a place like Whitehall.

The reason that such a location would never see the full light of day seemed evident to everyone who worked there, especially since lighting was deliberately kept at a slightly lower level than the rest of the building. That the dimness was in order to super-illuminate the massive television wall-screens and glowing, back-lit map-panels, seemed an obvious reason. It was also a much better light, of course, by which to see the fine details on the several extensive and live video screens of London and other major British cities, each image able to be switched, instantly, from live feed to extraordinarily detailed street maps of any city in the world, including Pyongyang, Tehran and Mogadishu. The dark charcoal floor of the entire department was a carpet of large, heavy-duty but extremely good-quality pure wool tiles. Again, most people believed this was to eliminate any chance of static-electrical build up, ruinous to the new software and technologies, never imagining for one moment that its primary purpose was to deaden sound to a bearable level for someone with incredibly sensitive hearing.

Every item of office furniture was of solid and, _purely coincidentally_ , of beautifully engineered and crafted timber. Wood was the most neutral of all materials other than stone, and one which would maintain a static-free environment for all that oh-so-delicate technology; after all, one _was_ morally obliged to take great care of such expensive government equipment. Thus Mycroft's immediate team of some twenty or so highly-skilled individuals worked in a tasteful and almost luxuriously appointed office space, carefully humidified, cooled, warmed and coddled. When he deemed it time for one or more of them to move on, it was sometimes difficult to get them to leave, but he trained his people so well that it wasn't overly problematic to find each one an exceptionally good new home somewhere within the vast administrative or executive arms of the British government, almost always at a higher pay grade than the one they had occupied in his employ. None of his current team had worked with him for more than five or six years. The rumour behind this constant movement of people and, in government, there were _always_ rumours, was that the work the department handled was so classified that nobody could stay more than a few years in case they remembered too much secret information. Mycroft, of course, made no attempt to disabuse anyone of this fallacious belief.

The subdued overhead lighting of his own private office made obscure checkered patterns across the floor as Mycroft sat in thought, weighing up the alternatives and likelihood of his mysterious watcher. Or _watchers_. That he might have imagined the entire experience did not for one moment cross his mind; Mycroft had survived for far too long on his wits and instincts alone to doubt for a second that what he had sensed in Eccleston Road had been anything other than real. He knew somebody, or, more probably, a _group_ of somebodies, was watching him, a task that, over the years, must have involved quite a number of individuals. And they had been watching him for a long time. As he sat at his desk waiting for the camera footage, he pursed his mouth and thought dark thoughts.

Who were these people? Why were they keeping him under surveillance? And why had their presence become more noticeably obvious in the last few days? Was it political? Had his name and photograph finally made its way to the inner cabinet of the _Kremlin_ in Moscow or the _Zhongnanhai_ in Beijing? Or was it, perhaps, a more domestic shadowing? God only knew how many personal and professional enemies he'd racked up over the years, though in previous posts, he'd always taken extraordinary care to ensure he never stayed overlong in the same job or position; his lack of aging sure to raise suspicions of _something_ if not the actual reality of his situation, for who believed in vampires these days? But in this particular role, one in which he had to admit, he felt he had discovered his _niche_ , he'd taken an entirely different tack. Rather than trying to move or change _himself_ in order to keep everyone around him unaware of his non-changing reality, he simply made sure that _everyone else_ around him changed instead.

His political masters, such as they were, changed on a relatively frequent basis; he hardly dealt with any of them these days for more than ten years or so. Each new General Election brought in a fresh wave of faces to power; a new PM, new Ministers and Heads of Committees. With the advent of the new computer-systems, it was utter child's play to reset the details on his private file every decade or so. For those individuals in his own department with whom he worked on a daily basis, he simply moved them onwards and upwards after a few years. A change of Department Head here, a promotion there. It had proved to be an absurdly easy method and Mycroft couldn't understand why the idea hadn't occurred to him ages before. For those rare few at the very top of Whitehall's enormous administrative hierarchy whom he could neither promote or persuade to leave, he simply kept himself to his own business until he'd outlived them all. He had everyone assume him to be 'a minor official' for a very good reason; keeping a relatively low profile wasn't simply a matter of avoiding unwanted publicity, but also one of calculated misdirection. And thus he'd happily managed to remain unchanging in this increasingly central role for almost forty years, since not long after the end of the last war, to be accurate. Which was when he'd been finangled into the job in the first place, and it had all been Winston's fault.

Just prior to Germany's opening salvos in 1939, Churchill had once again become First Lord of the Admiralty when Mycroft had, almost literally, bumped into the man at an elegant black-tie _soiree_ in Belgravia. The hostess of this particular grand evening was the strikingly beautiful wife of a Viscount in one of England's finest and oldest aristocratic families. She'd met Mycroft at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden during the interval of _Lohengrin_ , and had apparently taken a great fancy to the darkly handsome and enigmatic Englishman. That she had taken an even greater fancy in divesting him of his darkly handsome clothing and getting him into her fine old English bed was neither here nor there. Mycroft had adroitly managed to avoid the woman's artful lures, maintaining the loosest of relationships because he found her husband, the Viscount, to be a tolerably good chess player.

The mood of London society at the end of summer in 1939 was gay and unnaturally, artificially buoyant, with a number of large and blissfully untroubled revelries taking place at the smartest of addresses. Mycroft had agreed to attend this evening's event only in order to avoid attending another one at which he'd heard Oswald Mosely was due to appear. He could not abide the man, so this affair had seemed the perfect alternative. There was the usual string-quartet in the corner of the main receiving room, with glittering elegance and rare jewellery on display, as if this were after a war had been won rather than immediately before one was about to begin. The great number of exquisitely-dressed and fashionably-chic women laughing and gossiping had him wondering if he'd made an even great error in coming to this one.

Standing alone in an alcove near a massively ornate fireplace and about to light up one of his ever-present Cuban cigars, Winston Churchill had reached for a crystal lighter sitting on a low side table at the same time as Mycroft.

" _Apologies_ ," Churchill growled, standing back to allow the much taller stranger right of passage. "Keep meaning to bring a spare with me and always forget," he shrugged, smiling uncertainly as Mycroft turned, lifting the heavy lighter up for both their uses.

"Allow me," he flicked the device into life, offering the flame for Churchill's convenience.

Leaning forward and puffing a fierce _Romeo y_ _Julieta_ into life, the soon-to-be Prime Minister narrowed his eyes and assessed the tall, impeccably well-dressed stranger in the process of lighting up his own, much less impressive smoke.

"Winston Churchill," he said, holding out his right hand. "I'm a politician."

Taking the shorter man's firm grip, Mycroft shook it firmly. "Mycroft Holmes," he said. "I'm a spy."

"Are you really?" Churchill smiled widely, amused by such effrontary. "For which side?"

"Britain, naturally," Mycroft smiled back. "I spy on all manner of boring paperwork for the War Office, wasting my time when I might be able to offer some real assistance to those preparing for the oncoming war."

"You're so certain there'll be war?" Winston stared into the taller man's face.

Mycroft inspected his mild Uppman Corona, a _moue_ forming on his mouth. "Of course there's going to be war," he murmured. "Short of an act of god exploding the entire inner circle of Herr Hitler's little _coterie_ , I cannot imagine any other outcome given the current conditions."

"Some people would welcome a return to the battlefield, to win glory and honour for King and Country, Mr Holmes," Winston puffed softly on his cigar.

"Some people are fools," Mycroft frowned. "War begets war and I've no patience with those who laud its existence."

"A Pacifist, then?" Churchill looked down at the tips of his shiny black shoes.

Contemplating the glowing tip of his fragrant-burning cigar, Mycroft shook his head. "Not in the least," he said. "Though I confess that a return to the Garden of Eden is far more preferable in my eyes than a descent into the battlefield."

"You've served, of course?" Churchill thought of his own military days on the Western Front in 1915. It had been a bloody affair.

Mycroft smiled inwardly. He'd been in more wars than he could easily remember and had fought for many causes, many kings. The only ones who ever gained from such conflict were the worms. "Of course," his smile was distant and a little sad.

"Then you'll likely be involved in the coming scrap," Churchill intercepted a passing waiter and liberated a crystal tumbler of scotch. The waiter offered the tray to Mycroft, who did the same.

"To a swift peace," he said, tipping the glass towards the older-looking man.

"Amen, Mr Holmes," the Admiralty Lord clinked glasses. "Now tell me more about this nonsense of pushing paper around in the War Office; wouldn't you much rather have an active role in the great global stage upon which Europe and, no doubt, her many minions will engage?" he asked. "A young man such as yourself, in your prime of life, must surely be keen to see this thing over and done with as quickly and with as little bloodshed as possible?"

"I may be older than you think," Mycroft's smile was genuine. "But to answer your question, then yes; of course I'd far rather be doing something that would work towards the end of the fighting than for its continuance, of course."

"You'll be well-educated, naturally," Churchill eyed his smoking companion up and down. "You speak several languages, I presume?"

Wondering what point the conversation was about to reach, Mycroft restrained any fulsome response, waiting, instead for further information. "A few," he answered cagily.

"German?" Winston tapped an inch of grey ash from the tip of his Cuban.

"And Russian, Japanese, Italian and French," Mycroft nodded. _No need to tell the War Lord all his secrets just yet; he wanted to know what was on the man's mind and where this conversation was leading_.

"Japanese, _eh?_ " Churchill looked immediately thoughtful and nodded slowly. "You think Japanese might be a productive language to have in the not-too-distant future?"

"I believe it might be a very useful tongue within ... oh ..." Mycroft puffed on his cigar and looked up at the ceiling. "Certainly within the next twelve to fourteen months," he said, examining the exquisitely painted details of an elaborate architrave. "I think confidential translations might be quite the thing within the year, actually," he held the sweet-scented smoke in his mouth. "Almost certainly before the end of next year, Minister," he added.

"You think a year at most, do you?" Churchill was suddenly reflective. "That might make things a little tricky."

"Depends on what other languages one might hear," Mycroft tilted his head to one side. "The Americans can be on the loud side, but their expressions are very similar to ours, despite their inability to master the finer rules of cricket."

The First Lord of the Admiralty laughed. "I believe the Americans play by slightly different rules," he said. "My own mother was American, you know," he added shrewdly, watching the expression on Mycroft's face.

"I'm told the lady was a true beauty," Mycroft lifted his glass in salute. "To the beautiful Americans."

Churchill laughed again, clouds of aromatic smoke drifting around him. "And to insightful Englishmen," he said, clinking glasses before becoming suddenly serious. "I'd like to talk a little more on this matter of language," he added, looking around. "But perhaps a less crowded room might be indicated ..."

Observing their hostess wending a convoluted pathway towards their private nook by the fireplace, Mycroft felt the time had come to make a strategic retreat to a spot less open to ambush. "I know just the place," he smiled mildly, walking with a deceptive swiftness over to the nearest exit and through the adjacent room with Churchill on his heels. Turning down one passage after another, the two men emerged in a quaint little conservatory, unlit except by faint starlight. There were several generous armchairs.

" _Damn_ ," Churchill muttered. "Should've brought the scotch."

"Permit me," Mycroft placed a half-full decanter on the low table between them, then producing, much like white rabbits from hats, a glass from each jacket pocket. "I imagined it might be appreciated."

"Man after my own heart," the War Lord chuckled as Mycroft poured the golden spirit for them both. "Now," he said. "About those languages you think it might be useful to speak ..."

Mycroft had become Churchill's man that night, working throughout the war both in front of and behind the scenes as needed, his only stipulations being that his work had to be undertaken beyond the daylight hours and that nobody should ever learn his name. Though considered somewhat strange, there were so many other bizarre and outlandish goings-on at the time that Mycroft's relatively minor requests were easily accommodated. It was only after the war was finally over that a small department was created, deep within the gloomy passages of Whitehall; its first Director a tall, dark-haired man with piercingly blue eyes.

And now, sitting in the carefully bespoke office that had been his, one way or another, for the last thirty-odd years, Mycroft pondered the question of who might possibly know enough about him to consider him worth watching. The sudden re-emergence of persistent observation after all this time was both disquieting and irritating. Mycroft realised if he could find out the _who_ , then he'd be able to deduce the _why_. Thus he waited in his office for the camera-feed of Eccleston Road, checking his Hunter with some impatience and waiting a little more.

Kit sat and sipped her hot cocoa, waiting for Sherlock to finish describing the main Chemistry lab in the school. He'd spent less that fifteen seconds on the entirety of the rest of his description, but had waxed lyrical about the laboratory. It wasn't hard to see where the lad's interest lay. He said something that niggled at her attention.

"What?" she said. "Say that again."

Sherlock sighed the sigh of the intellectually superior. "I _said_ ," he said patronisingly, "that I'll need to get my own lab set up somewhere in the house if I'm going to be able to do any real work after school," he pursed his lips in thought.

"You plan on setting up a proper laboratory here," Kit felt the first twinges of potential concern. "In this house?"

"Well, where else could I set one up?" Sherlock spoke patiently, as if Kit was being particularly dim this evening. "I'll need somewhere that won't matter if I splash acid around, and where I have good access to hard surfaces and running water," he nodded as the design of his new plan became clearer in his mind. "I could make good use of the laundry area," he added, thinking out loud. "Though there wouldn't be much room left for those big machines."

Replacing her empty mug on the table, Kitta sat back with folded arms and an expression Sherlock would recognise if he looked in the mirror. "Not in this lifetime are you going to be doing anything with splashy acid on any of the hard surfaces in my laundry," she said. "I shall have to put my foot down about that little idea, I think."

"But apart from the bathrooms, it's the only place in the house with enough space and running water," Sherlock slumped down in his seat and looked vaguely mutinous. "I suppose I could set one up in my room, but it wouldn't be very _big_ ..."

"No chemicals or laboratory in your bedroom, neither," Kit shook her head, wanting to put a stop to this line of thinking once and for all. "Nor in the attic or any of the bathrooms, nowhere, in fact," she said, leaning forward to meet the boy's eyes, "that's in any of the rooms in this house," she added. "Unless Mr Mycroft decides he wants to do over one of the spare rooms for you."

Brightening immediately, Sherlock looked hopeful. "Do you think he would?" he asked.

Looking less than delighted at the idea, Kit made a face. "I suppose he might," she said. "If he thought it was a good idea and would keep you out of trouble."

"Then I shall have to ask him as soon as he gets home tonight," the child's cheerful expectation hard to dampen, as he returned to describing the exceptional science facilities at the Eaton Square School in Eccleston Road.

"Sending the footage through now, sir," the analyst called Mycroft on an internal line. "There's not much to see, I'm afraid, even though I was able to skim feed from three different locations. Please tell me if you require further input from any of the three."

Turning immediately to a wall-mounted television-screen, Mycroft switched the feed through; there were three distinct channels playing simultaneously, each one showing a different angle of the same area of Eccleston Gardens. His eyes flickered from one channel to the next, to the next and back again. Tall hedges, high black iron railings, everything in shadows and darkness; nothing but shrubs and rails and leaves and pavement. His analyst had been correct; the natural light hadn't been good enough to provide a clear view of ... wait ... there did appear to be ... something.

 _There_. Beneath the thinly-leaved branches of a tall sycamore tree; something ... _someone_ ... moved. Completely shaded under the tree, in the more than half-dark ... someone standing deliberately close to the bole of the sycamore, wearing dark clothing and allowing no ambient lighting to highlight any part of their body. Whoever it was knew a great deal about remaining invisible in plain sight; this ... _yes_ ... this _man_ , judging by the figure's relative height to the lowest tree branches, was a surveillance expert, no doubt about it. Mycroft sat back into his chair, fingers resting against him mouth. _Who was this person?_ Was he activing on his own behalf, or had someone sent him? If so, then who? He picked up the internal desk phone.

"There's a man sheltering within the penumbra of the large sycamore on the third camera feed," he said. "Have that section isolated and enhanced as far as possible and as quickly as possible," he paused, thinking. "Keep watching that particular feed to see when the man leaves and in which direction he moves; track him for me, Mr Marri," he added slowly. "I want to see where he goes to ground."

"I'll do my best, sir," the young man had keen eyes and Mycroft knew that his request was in the most competent of hands. Now all he had to do was wait. In the meantime, he began reviewing all intercepted coded material and recent chatter between the major embassies; had any one of them been involved in this new surveillance? He examined every small scrap of conversation for some mention of his name or even a general description that he might apply to himself. But there was nothing new; his people were too good to allow something like that to slip through unobserved and unmentioned. His phone buzzed.

"Sorry, Mr Holmes," Sadiq sounded genuinely contrite. "The park simply became too dark to identify the individual any further and by the time the street lights were bright enough to see anything, he'd gone. I'm very sorry, sir; I'll keep looking."

"Never mind," Mycroft was disappointed but hardly surprised. Anyone that good at watching others would surely know the perfect time to leave a site before he too was among the observed. "Have the footage sent to our forensic people to see if they can extract any further details from what we have," he said. "But in the meantime, I shall return home; contact me if you find anything of use." At that time of the evening, traffic in and around Whitehall had diminished to a trickle and the Jaguar had him back at the Pall Mall address in minutes only.

Sherlock was still in full spate as Mycroft walked into the kitchen, a bright smile lighting the boy's face as he stopped, arms wide, right in the middle of describing a series of glass glove-boxes where each student could put their hands and work on experiments _inside the box_.

Despite his dissatisfaction at being unable to yet identify the man surveilling him, Mycroft found it difficult to retain his bad mood in the face of Sherlock's unbounded enthusiasm. He found himself smiling despite everything.

"I take it you find the school to be satisfactory?" he asked, taking a seat at the table as Kit brought his usual silver tray over. Tonight, apparently, was shrimp and celery. Mycroft wondered vaguely if Kit was attempting to tempt him with a normal diet.

"I wasn't overly taken with the English reading list for my year," he frowned. "I read all those books when I was three," he sounded unimpressed. "Though I suppose they'll let me read other books as well."

"I'm fairly certain none of the teachers would want you to feel your learning had been in any way constrained, Sherlock," Mycroft sipped his vodka, relishing the burn of the fiery liquid inside his chest. "You only need advise them you've already absorbed the prescribed texts and they will suggest alternatives."

"And the language labs looked interesting, although Mr Townsend said they only taught modern languages," the boy looked undecided. "I will need ancient Greek and Latin for my science studies."

"We've already agreed I can teach you Latin here," Mycroft crossed his legs. "There's no reason why I can't teach you ancient Greek at the same time."

Pausing, Sherlock let everything sink in. "In that case," he murmured slowly, "I think I might like to try the Eaton Square School," he said. "At least until I get bored."

Quietly thanking all the pedagogical deities for a favourable outcome, Mycroft nodded. "In _that_ case," he said. "There's one thing that absolutely must be done before we continue any further," he leaned forward, fixing the boy with an unwavering stare. "Tonight, in fact."

Kitta looked wondering. Mycroft had said nothing to her about anything special that needed to be done this evening.

"What?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows, curious.

Looking back over his shoulder as he made his way to the main phone in the hallway, Mycroft smiled again as he picked up the receiver, holding it to his ear. "Haircut."


	15. in which certain arrangements are made.

 

"Now?" Sherlock was surprised but followed his guardian down the hallway. "Will the hair cutting people still be cutting hair so late in the evening?"

"My hair cutting people will be," Mycroft spoke quietly into the phone, pulling out his Hunter to check the hour. Sherlock wasn't sure whether this was a good thing or not. He hadn't been given any time to consider the situation.

Kitta walked out from the kitchen. "Are you off now then?" she asked, folding her arms. "Should I leave the light on or will you two gadabouts be home before eleven?"

"At this time in the evening," Mycroft pocketed his watch. "We'll reach our destination in approximately three minutes and even allowing sufficient time for Mr Charles to execute his usual wizardry, I can't see Sherlock taking an hour to shear, thus we should return in good order after the ignoble deed has been accomplished in fine time for a warm drink of cocoa for Sherlock and perhaps a brief encounter with a convivial Glenlivet for myself," he smiled cheerily. "Therefore the sooner we are off, the sooner we shall be back, Sherlock ..." Mycroft turned, regarding the boy. "To the car, if you please."

Still contemplating the vagaries of fate, specifically those relating to unexpected excursions an hour before bedtime, Sherlock grinned and darted out of the door and down to the rear door of the Jaguar; Mycroft followed a little more slowly, his eyes carefully scanning the street-scene before him without _looking_ as if he were looking. Whoever was watching for him outside the Eaton Square School must either have known, in advance, that Eccleston Road had been his destination, or they had followed him from the Pall Mall address. If his itinerary had been known in advance, then he had a spy in his department; if he and Sherlock had simply been followed, then whoever it was that followed them must have known where to _begin_ following. They would know therefore, that he lived _here_. And thus he scanned his surrounds very carefully indeed, hoping to catch a glimpse of _something_ ; especially since this entire area was possessed of extremely good CCTV coverage. _Extremely_ good. If anyone was lurking around his house, he'd be able to track them a great deal more easily than from the dark shadows of Eccleston Gardens.

But he saw nothing untoward; no unexpected shadows, no men lounging uncomfortably in dark doorways. There was no point lingering, so he joined his young ward in the car. Jude was driving him tonight. "Good evening, Roberts; Jermyn Street, if you please."

"Evening, Mr Holmes and you, Mr Sherlock. How are you getting on with my Aunty?"

"Kit makes great biscuits though she won't let me have a laboratory in the laundry," the boy sniffed, piqued. "But she's a very nice lady although she keeps asking me to wash my hands and tries to make me eat all the time. Not sure why."

Kit's nephew laughed. "That sounds like her, sure enough," he said. "Will that be Mr Charles' place, sir?"

"It will, Jude ..." Mycroft paused, turning to look down at the mop of dark curls in the seat beside him. "A laboratory? Is this something new?"

Folding his arms and sighing extravagantly, Sherlock nodded. "I'm going to need my own lab if I'm going to be able to do any worthwhile experiments after school hours," he sounded terribly serious. "But Kit is being absolutely unhelpful about it all."

"You want to use the laundry to set up your equipment and she said no?" despite everything, Mycroft found the corners of him mouth trying very hard to curve upwards. It was almost impossible to remain severe around the boy.

Folding his arms even tighter across his chest, Sherlock frowned, nodding. "She did say that I _might_ be able to use one of the spare rooms if you said so," Sherlock turned a wide, blue-eyed gaze upwards, his eyes meeting Mycroft's with a hopeful blink.

"Why don't we see what happens with the new school before we consider making any major changes to the house, hmm?" managing to maintain a relatively straight face, Mycroft met Jude's in the rear-view mirror. Jude smiled enough for the both of them.

Less than five minutes later, the Jaguar pulled carefully into the kerb, with Jude walking swiftly around to the nearside door, holding it open for both the Holmes' to debark. Standing on the fairly empty pavement, Sherlock's eyes were caught by the number of expensive-looking shops still open. Though by no means all of them, the bright lights and faint music emanating from some of the ones that _were_ open made him desperately curious and wanting to investigate. But where was the hairdressers? From where they stood on the pavement, to the left was an internationally-known men's outfitters, raincoats and a variety of shoes and boots tastefully adorning the main shop windows. To the right was a smaller but no less magnificent emporium that appeared to sell nothing but cufflinks. In the middle, almost unnoticed between the two other shops and framed by tall stone pillars, was a highly polished though discreet, wooden door set back into a small recessed frontage, long, reflective glass panels at either side. A polished brass plaque to the left of the door announced that this was, in fact, the home of a master of the tonsorial arts, one Mr Reginald Charles, Barber and Coiffurist to Royalty, by Appointment. A small red, white and gold shield bearing the images of a lion and unicorn testified to the fact that Mr Charles was indeed a cutter of hair most royal.

Ushering Sherlock forward, Mycroft pressed an almost invisible doorbell and waited. In a matter of seconds, the door opened easily and silently inwards where a well-dressed and well-groomed young man smiled, indicating they should enter. Following right behind his guardian, Sherlock was instantly fascinated by the shiny brass everywhere, the pervasive scent of men's cologne and the excessive amount of costly leather settees, antique side tables, dark-glassed lamps and luxurious, exotic wool rugs. This seemed less like a place to get one's hair cut and far more likely to be the foyer of some military club like the one his father occasionally frequented.

"Is this really a place for me to get my hair cut?" he half-whispered, staring around in unthinking curiosity.

"That remains to be seen, young man," a cut-crystal accent issued forth from a doorway to the right as an immaculately grey-suited gentleman of an indeterminate age stepped forward into the main waiting room. Mycroft stood impassive, his hands clasped in front as he watched and waited.

Sherlock was immediately riveted by the cut and complexity of the man's clothing; it was as if each fine layer had been sewn into place; everything looked so incredibly neat and orderly. He wasn't simply wearing the suit, he was _modelling_ it. The heavy gold wristwatch was muted, rather than shiny, as were the twin gold cufflinks at the man's stiff white cuffs and the glimmer of gold at the darkly silver tie. Of slight stature and not above medium height, his own hair was a light gold, fading to silver, each strand as immaculately composed as was the rest of his _ensemble_.

"My name," the newcomer stared down at the transfixed child with a pair of brilliant azure blue eyes, enunciating each vowel-sound with great emphasis so that everything assumed a grand _gravitas_. "Is Mr Charles," he said. "I do not merely _cut_ hair," he added, breathing deeply and half-closing his eyes in contemplation of artistic beatitudes. "I _create_ it." Narrowing his eyes, he began to walk around the boy, each step slow and measured, each one presenting a slightly different angle of perspective. With one hand holding an elbow while the other held his chin, Mr Charles completed an entire circuit of the boy before inhaling slowly through his nose. "There is possibility here," he said. " _Come_ ," he added, walking back through the door and into a much more brightly lit room.

Checking with Mycroft that he should go, Sherlock saw nothing in his guardian's face that suggested he shouldn't, so he turned and followed Mr Charles, with Mycroft not far behind.

The room they were in now was definitely brighter, with sharp lights both in the ceiling as well as emanating from several wall-lights on three of the four walls around them. The fourth wall was entirely mirrored. Facing the mirrored wall was an extraordinary chair, looking like a cross between a pilot's chair and something you'd see in a very expensive dentist's, with a dash of Bentley thrown in. Big and black and made of the softest leather, a single pointed finger from Mr Charles indicated that Sherlock should get into the chair.

For a seating contraption, it was very high though fortunately there was a solid steel footrest which Sherlock was forced to use as a step merely to get himself into the thing. Seating himself in one of several comfortable armchairs at the side of the room as Mr Charles' assistant brought him a very timely cup of aromatic coffee, Mycroft was silent, saying nothing, simply watching. Finally wrangling himself into the tall seat, Sherlock wondered if there might be a seat belt.

Mr Charles' young assistant re-entered the room carrying a pristine white coat, not unlike those conventionally worn in laboratories by scientists and Sherlock felt his interest kick up a few notches. Assisting Mr Charles with the removal of his suit jacket was an operation that took far less time than the boy would have imagined and suddenly the man himself was standing, white-coated, directly behind him. Swivelling the chair until Sherlock was staring directly into his own reflection, Mr Charles touched a button on the side which allowed the entire thing to sink gently downwards until the footrest was almost on the floor itself. At this height, Sherlock's head was at the perfect level for Mr Charles's fingers.

Fingers that were suddenly threading themselves carefully through the mass of untamed curls, lifting lengths away to assess their strength and general condition. Sherlock's entire head, the condition of his skin and hair were subjected to an intense silent scrutiny for several long moments.

"Your hair was last cut approximately nine weeks ago," Mr Charles began, stretching out a particularly long curl and smoothing the end between his fingertips. "And not with scissors," he added, a look of distaste flattening his mouth. "A single thin blade was used ... a pen-knife or something equally uninspired," he said, separating one length of hair from another. "You cut it yourself," Mr Charles sighed almost sadly. "In fact it wasn't so much cut as hacked away by brute force," he said, looking up to stare at Sherlock's reflection. "Did you do it because you were bored or did you have something stuck in it?"

"Epoxy resin," Sherlock kept his eyes on the images in the mirrors. "It went hard and I couldn't wash it out."

" _Ah_ ," Mr Charles nodded. "It is often thus with those of high intelligence and with a questioning temperament," he looked thoughtful. "Until recently, you have been using a cheap supermarket floral-based shampoo," he said, "but have been using one of a superior quality for the last ..." he paused, thinking, his fingertips rolling the dark strands between them. "Eight days," he parted a thick wave of hair, staring at Sherlock's scalp. "Your usual diet of recent has been lacking in many of the nutrients and nourishing elements that combine to nurture your hair and scalp," he continued. "You need to eat salmon to lift the natural shine, as well as eggs for thickness and chicken for growth," he said. "Lots of vitamin C and B," he added. "Thankfully, you appear to have already made some more recent changes to your lifestyle which will go some way to re-establishing the best health for your hair. I see you have been eating more regularly and enjoying a more consistent sleeping regimen," Mr Charles paused, resting several fingertips lightly on the crown of Sherlock's head. "You have experienced a great deal of stress recently," he said, lifting the shorter strands near the scalp between his fingers. "Something that has severely affected your physical and emotional wellbeing ..." he paused abruptly and Sherlock watched in the mirror as Mr Charles raised his head to stare across the room at Mycroft. An unspoken question seemed to have been asked and answered. Mr Charles raised his eyebrows.

"You have a fine head of hair, young Mr Holmes," he announced brusquely. "I believe I might even be able to turn it into something acceptable if you would care to join my _clientele_.

"I think I would be very happy to join your clientele if you can tell how you know all those things about me," Sherlock twisted to stare questioningly at his guardian.

"I've said nothing," Mycroft raised a hand in his own defence. "I spoke with Mr Charles this evening only to ensure he would be available to see you, nothing more."

"Then how did you know ..?" Sherlock squirmed back into the seat, staring straight ahead into the mirror and Mr Charles's vivid blue eyes.

"How did I know you were of high intelligence?" the man smiled coolly. "By the general size and shape of your skull, especially by the shape of your frontal and parietal lobes," he added, sliding cool fingers from place to place on Sherlock's head as he spoke. "A large skull generally suggests a large brain and therefore, the potential of a large intelligence. As to the history of your hair," he said, coiling one of Sherlock's curls again between his fingers. "I am able to read your experiences much like a scientist can read the history of a tree by the examination of its rings; your recent history is an open book for me, young man, and I am an _extremely_ observant reader."

"So you simply speculated?" Sherlock frowned, thinking.

"I _never_ speculate," Mr Charles retorted, tugging the curl just hard enough to make the boy wince. "I observe minutia," he said. "I see the background and history as well as the near future and possibilities while others are still floundering around looking for the light switch," he concluded, stepping back and waving his assistant forward. "Simon will wash you and I will return when you are prepared," he swanned off back into the main room. Mycroft stood and followed.

Mr Charles's Simon stood nearby beside a second open door that had been invisible until only a moment before. It led into a small alcove with an oddly-shaped basin above which hung a surgically-clean steel rack containing all manner of shampoos and conditioning substances. Wrapping Sherlock in a series of fine towels, he told the boy to sit in the chair and lean back. It was the first time Sherlock had ever had his hair washed in a professional establishment before. It was a decidedly strange experience and he prepared to record and evaluate every second of it.

In his small office, just off the main waiting room, Reginald Charles poured Mycroft a small shot of the purest Finnish vodka for which they both had a shared fondness.

"Poor little chap," Reggie shook his head as Mycroft filled him in on the essential details of Sherlock's situation. "I knew it must have been bad when I saw the state of his hair."

"Hopefully, the worst is behind him now," Mycroft looked reflective. "Though I have no experience in child-rearing and am only managing because of the greatest good fortune in finding a far more skilled nanny than I had hoped."

"So, you bring him to me to deal with his hair," Reggie sipped his vodka, relishing the burn. "Is that the only reason?"

Inclining forward to pour himself another shot, Mycroft narrowed his mouth and looked bleak. "There _is_ another matter," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I may need those sharp eyes of yours to look at more than the boy's hair," he added. "Someone is following me and I need to know who, how and why."

"Domestic or foreign?" Reggie Charles sounded interested. "And since when?"

Mycroft realised he could hardly tell his operative the surveillance had been fairly regular though intermittent since the seventeenth century. "I've wondered for some time," he said, cautiously. "It has to be a series of individuals, so perhaps an organisation of some sort is at the root of it all. It's become far more obvious in the last few weeks."

"Since the boy's parents died in Rome, then?" Charles pondered the possibilities.

Thinking back over the last few times he'd felt, _no_ , that he'd _known_ he was being watched, Mycroft had to acknowledge that indeed, it had been about that length of time. Was there possibly a connection here? Was he being watched by agents who might also have been watching either or both of Sherlock's parents? Had the plane accident been an accident? As such thoughts and extrapolations shot through his mind, Mycroft felt his facial muscles grow tight. Someone gunning for him was something of an occupational hazard and almost to be expected. But if Sherlock's parents were somehow involved ... if the child himself were in danger ... No. Mycroft stopped such useless conjecture. There was nothing concrete that pointed to Sherlock and until it did, there was little use speculating otherwise.

"The eyes are on me," he said, finally. "I've felt them before and now they're back and I want to know why."

"Then I'll see what I can find out," Reggie said, smiling faintly. "I've always been a good spy for you, haven't I?" he stood, replacing his glass on the desk as a soft chime sounded. "But now I have to go and be a good cutter and transform that rather shaggy little sheepdog of yours into something on an altogether grander scale," he added, straightening his coat and strolling back towards his studio.

Sherlock was back in the high chair, swathed in a long silvery-grey wrap covering him from the neck down. The air in the room was softly redolent with the mixed scents of cedar and patchouli and sage, and Simon had done something to the focus of the lights so that the boy in the chair was equally enveloped in a corona effect of gentle but meticulous illumination. Mycroft noticed it was possible to see, even at some distance, every hair on the child's head. He resumed his seat and waited as Mr Charles got on with the job in hand.

Testing the dampness of the hair to ensure it was neither too wet or too dry, Mycroft's spy became _Mr Charles_ , one of London's foremost gentlemen's hair stylists. Carefully turning Sherlock's head so that the boy's eyes faced directly forward, the blond-haired man with the bright blue eyes took a deep breath and began his transformation.

Back at the Pall Mall house, Kitta took a deep breath and began her list of things Sherlock would need for the new school. Fortunately one of the pile of documents Mycroft had brought home with him following the school visit that evening had been a complete list of necessities for Sherlock's uniform, as well as equipment, learning materials and associated bits and pieces that the lad would need. There was a second sheet which listed all the textbooks and other things he'd need for his studies, including purchasing materials for his science studies, sports gear, cookery, art and music lessons. And then there were all the extra-curricular events; school trips to museums and seminars; educational visits to expos and sites of engineering interest. The Houses of Parliament, a visit to the underground tube stations. On top of this, there were the international school trips, to Europe, to the Lake District, to the snow. Then there were more lists for equipment and clothing for these ongoing activities ... Kit inhaled deeply and shook her head. When she was a lass, all they had at her school was the annual County fair and a few Vicarage _f_ _ê_ _tes_ thrown in. Things were a lot different these days, especially the prices of things; she winced as she saw the prices of some of the uniform items.

Fortunately, Mycroft, by dint of being both immortal _and_ having a damn good sense of business, seemed to have more than enough money to pay for any and all of this. Kit looked again at the uniform purchase sheet. Most of this stuff could be pre-ordered through the mail, needing only Sherlock's measurements. Shoes, however, she knew she'd have to get him fitted out properly in a decent shoe-shop, of which there had to be a few in the Capital. The rest of the stuff she could either take care of herself or, more probably, would allow Mycroft to handle. Kit smiled to herself. She hadn't missed the expression on the man's face each time Sherlock had included him in his games, despite the fact that he got his nice suit all mucky from rolling around on a dirty floor. He might not have any experience in raising a child, but despite his cool and detached exterior, Kit knew that underneath, he was already deeply attached to the boy and would not stint on any necessary expense. The greater problem might be getting him to _stop_ buying things.

Laying the various pieces of paper out on the table, she started making another of her 'to do' lists, this one covering the order in which all these _other_ things needed to be done. Checking the leaflet that came with all the rest of the school information, Kitta saw the next new term began only a few weeks hence. She nodded to herself. The perfect time for a new boy to begin a new school was at the same time that all the other new children arrived; hopefully, Sherlock wouldn't feel too overwhelmed by it all if there were others he could see having the same problems as him.

In the meantime, she'd just go and have a good look through the clothes that the boy already had; apart from the few things she'd seen going through the laundry, she had no clear idea what else might be lurking up in his wardrobe. If Sherlock needed new gear, then he may as well have it all organised now while he was getting stuff for school. Carrying her pad and a pen, Kit made her way to the stairs and up towards Sherlock's room. Though he'd managed to put most of his books and belongings up on shelves and into cupboards, she hadn't really had an opportunity to give the lad's room as good a cleaning as she wanted; perhaps that was something she could remedy in the morning. _Tomorrow_ , she recalled, was also the day when Mycroft had said his cleaning company would be arriving to do their usual clean of the entire house. Clenching her teeth, Kit made a faint hissing noise; she would be having a few _words_ with those cleaning people when they arrived. In the meantime, she'd better get on before the menfolk got back and wanted their various bedtime soothers.

The menfolk who were currently staring in silence at the finished article that was now Holmes the Younger.

It wasn't as if his hair was suddenly incredibly short, because Mr Charles hadn't really cut that much off the length, even though there was a very respectable halo of dark hair on the floor all around the chair. Nor was it because Mr Charles had cut Sherlock's hair in a bizarre or outlandish manner, although his current look would never do for the Queen's Guards. It wasn't even because the new cut made the boy look like everybody else, because that simply wasn't the case, nor was uniformity Mr Charles's style. No, the new cut made Sherlock look ... more like Sherlock. A dark cap of abbreviated loose curls which clung in Byronesque fashion around his face. Though not Horse Guard Parade short, neither was it going to be difficult to manage.

"I believe that will do," Mr Charles had resumed his earlier pose where one hand held the point of his chin, his elbow was supported by the other. "Though I think it will take several more visitations before it appears totally _au naturelle,"_ he added. "I will expect you back in this chair in five weeks' time."

Running his fingers through his carefully and cleverly sculpted mop, Sherlock nodded. "It's good," he said, not unhappy with his first proper haircut. "Thank you."

"Excellent work, as always, Mr Charles," Mycroft stood, waiting as the boy hopped off the chair. "You have outdone yourself on this occasion, I feel."

"A negligible effort," the blond man lifted his fingers airily, the same slight smile as before on his face. "But one which may prove worthy in the end," he bowed his head in true dramatic style.

"Can we go and have a look at the books now, please?" Sherlock remembered Mycroft's suggestion.

"It will have to be another time, I'm afraid, Sherlock," Mycroft repocketed his Hunter. "This evening will not provide us with sufficient time for the necessary browsing, but never fear; the books will be there for some time to come. Now it's time for home." Waiting as Simon showed Sherlock out in order to give him a small carrier bag filled with all types of samples in tiny glass bottles, all three adults were amused to see that while the child was not the least bit interested in the contents, he was fascinated by the bottles themselves.

"These are perfect for preserving worms and gastropods," Sherlock said, pleased. He wondered how many more he might be able to get away with before he seemed greedy. Simon appeared more than happy to donate several handfuls to the cause.

"If my people uncover further details, I'll have you informed," Mycroft rested an index-finger on Charles's elbow. "But if you could explore the area we spoke of earlier, I'd be most appreciative," he added. "Keep in touch."

Making their way out to the car, Jude had the door opened and waiting. "I meant to give this to you earlier sir," he said, handing over a large thick white envelope. "I was told you'd know what it was for."

Weighing the envelope in his hand, Mycroft scanned his recent memory for its probable contents. _Ah yes_ , of course.

"No harm done, Roberts," Mycroft looked pleased. "Time for home and I think that will likely be all for tonight."

"As you say, Mr Holmes," Jude nodded in the rear view mirror and headed for Pall Mall.

Kit was waiting to hear the front door open before she heated the milk for the boy's drink, though she'd already located the Glenlivet that Mycroft had mentioned. She wondered what kind of haircut the laddie would have ended up with and hoped it wasn't going to be too draconian. The reality, when Sherlock walked in, was a pleasant surprise, but perhaps best not to be overly effusive.

"Perfect timing," she said, arranging cocoa for both the boy and herself. "And you weren't gone more than the hour, as you said," she added.

"They gave me all these bottles to use," Sherlock tipped the bag onto the table, allowing the numerous small glass containers to tumble out.

"Looks like some fancy hair stuff to me," Kit squinted at the fine print on the glass. "I hate to think how much this lot would cost in the shops around here."

"I don't care what's inside, I only wanted the bottles," Sherlock crossed to the sink, shaking out the contents of one and rinsing it thoroughly to see how it looked clean and empty. It was perfect.

"And this is for you, Miss Penderic," Mycroft slid the heavy white envelope across the table towards her as he sat, reaching for the scotch. "I'd like you to review the contents carefully, after which we can discuss anything you might prefer to amend."

Looking vaguely baffled, Kitta pulled the flap open, reaching inside to draw forth the contents.

 _Contract of Employment_.

 _Oh_. She'd completely forgotten about it, though one thing that she _hadn't_ forgotten about though, was her determination that the boy would have a say in her being here. She shoved the wad of printed paper back into the envelope. "Sherlock," she said, dragging the child's attention away from washing all the bottles out in one go. "Come and sit down and drink your cocoa, please," she said. "There's things we three need to discuss before you go to bed."

Giving her a curious look, Sherlock sat as directed, folding his arms and totally ignoring the hot drink as his eyes shifted from Kit to Mycroft and back. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing wrong in the least," Kitta tapped the white package before resting her clasped hands on the table. "The stuff in this envelope is the legal way of me being offered a job doing what I've been doing since we both got here," she said. "But I wanted to make sure that you wanted me to be here before I looked at it, so," she added, arching her eyebrows. "How do you feel about me being your Housekeeper?"

Frowning, as if he didn't quite understand the question, Sherlock looked perplexed and turned to Mycroft. "How do I _feel?_ " he asked.

"Miss Penderic wants to know if you are happy for her to remain as your carer and as my Housekeeper at this time," Mycroft was fairly certain of the boy's response, but admired Kit's willingness to have the question asked. She had uprooted her entire life to come here.

"I don't understand," Sherlock frowned even more as he turned back to Kit. "Don't you want to stay here?"

"Course I do, Lovey," Kit smiled. "But t'ain't just Mycroft I needs to have me here. You'm just as important as is he, and I wanted you to know that."

"And if I said I wanted you to go, then you'd go?" Sherlock looked speculative.

Mycroft felt the faintest stirring of unease.

"I would indeed," Kitta nodded.

"Just like that? You'd pack your bag and leave?"

"First thing in the morning, soon as I could get a taxi to the station."

"Where would you go?" Sherlock sounded curious.

Mycroft felt the stirrings morph into a vague tension.

"I'd go back down to Cornwall and stay with a friend until I could find me another job and a place to live," Kit replied promptly.

"But wouldn't you miss us?"

"Would you like me to stay, then?" Kit's dark eyes met a much paler pair.

"Can I have a laboratory in my room?"

"Not a chance," Kit shook her head. "And before you ask, no; you can't use the laundry, neither."

"A different Housekeeper might let me," Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he stared back.

"My bags really don't need much packing," Kit sounded nonchalant.

"I'm sure a _small_ lab in the laundry wouldn't be such a problem for anybody else," Sherlock tilted his head sideways.

"Not even the smallest of the small," Kit folded her arms and looked pleased.

"Sherlock," Mycroft's voice held the softest undertone of warning.

The boy sighed theatrically as he turned to face his Guardian. "I nearly had her agreeing to let me have a lab," he scolded. "And now you've ruined it."

Sighing inwardly, Mycroft looked solemn. "Tell Kit you want her to stay or I may be forced to sell you to the next passing circus."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock turned back to face the dragon who refused him a lab. "Of course you can't go anywhere else," he said, matter-of-factly. "Nobody else would like me and Mycroft as much as you do, and besides," he added. "You promised to let me read all your medical books, so you can't possibly leave before I've done that and it will probably take me a long time."

"Years, in fact," Mycroft pushed the white envelope closer to Kit's fingers. "Decades, even."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Decades."


	16. in which contractual obligations are made.

 

Sherlock was in the Library looking at some of Mycroft's books. Himself was at his office in Whitehall, and Kitta found that she had, for the first time since she'd started the job, a little peace and quiet. She'd made sure the boy had everything he needed before making her way back up to her rooms with a tray of tea things. Setting it down on the low table beside the settee in her sitting room, she made herself comfy, placed the gold reading-glasses on her nose and, taking a very deep breath, finally pulled all the paperwork from the envelope Mycroft had given her last night. She picked up a pen.

 _Contract of Employment_.

The last time she'd seen one of these things with her name on it was when she started working for the Royal District Nursing Service, which would have been roughly about the same time that the Beatles were kicking off. She'd been in the same job ever since and never really thought she might ever need to sign another one of these particular documents. But here she was, starting not just a new job, but a new way of life. Laying the various pages out on the sofa cushions, she turned to the covering letter.

 _Dear Miss Penderic_...

It contained the usual platitudes, written by some legal person somewhere, no doubt. She was required to sign and initial both copies of the contract herewith enclosed, her initials going at the bottom of each page to show she'd actually read it. Kit went through the whole letter all the way down to the bottom of the page, pausing when she saw a hand-written postscript that made her smile.

 _PS. Please do sign. Mycroft_.

Leaving the letter to one side, she turned to the next document, which was clearly a description of Mycroft's expectations of her employment duties. They seemed very reasonable. _To act as Nanny and care-giver to Sherlock Holmes and Housekeeper to Mycroft Holmes within the residence at 84 Pall Mall in Westminster, London_. It was probably far too vague, but then, Kit realised, this work was never ever going to be a normal kind of job now, was it? If Mycroft and the boy were happy with this summation of her work, then so was she. She initialled the page and laid it beside the letter.

The next document set out the conditions, including working hours, which she noted was merely a blank space with a little sticker beside it, asking her to write in whatever hours she felt were an appropriate number. Since she had no idea what an appropriate number of hours might be taking care of people, Kitta left it blank too, but initialled the page anyway. There was talk of sickness pay and holiday pay and insurance and pension arrangements, to which Kitta paid a fleeting attention. She initialled, turning to the last sheet of paper.

The final page laid out her hourly rate of pay, the equivalent annual salary and the details of the new bank account that had been created in her name at the nearest branch of Lloyds Bank, together with a brand new cheque book with her name already printed across the bottom and a plastic Access credit card, also embossed with her name. There were printed statements on both accounts and while the credit card account was at zero, there was a spending limit of... well, obviously _that_ couldn't be right ... Kit paused, her eyes going back up the page to re-read the details. Clearly, she'd missed something important. But no, what she had read before was correct. In addition to her salary, paid monthly in advance; the job, apparently, carried with it a fully subsidised credit card, with a spending limit of fifteen thousand pounds. _That was far more money than most people made in a year_. She checked again ... but she could see no restrictions on her handling of the account, only that it was intended for use in her new position and that all expenditure was at her own discretion. Feeling a little odd at suddenly having so much money at her disposal, Kit almost forgot to take in the rest of the details.

There was a pension arrangement if she were to stay in the position until Sherlock reached the age of eighteen, some nine years hence, then provision for either a lump sum or a monthly annuity was included in the deal. The total amount was quite astonishing. Kit took a swallow of cooling tea just to give her brain something else to think about for a few seconds. It was all a bit much. Her eyes finally flicked past the pension details to the actual pay Mycroft was willing to give her for doing the job that she already knew she wanted to keep doing

The numbers ... there were an awful lot of zeroes. It took her a while to work out where the decimal point actually was and when she did ... This was surely a mistake. Kitta frowned and looked back over the last few pages to see if there were any similar mistakes. But there wasn't. She turned back to the last page of the contract; the same bold black numbers were still there, still telling her something that was hard to believe. Even after she'd paid tax and all the usual insurances, there'd still be ... it would _still_ be more than ...

 _Twenty-five thousand pounds a year_.

Even when she was earning top rate as a nurse, she'd barely been paid more than a quarter of that amount. Mycroft Holmes was offering her a job she already loved, with more perks than she could imagine in her wildest dreams, at a rate of pay that left her speechless. Kit sat back in her luxurious armchair and blinked. She couldn't take this much money, she realised. It was far too much. She returned to look at the print out of her current bank statement. There was more than two thousand pounds in there already ... of course; payment a month in _advance_ ... Kit felt her head spin. But it was still too much. She'd have to tell Mycroft the money was too much; she'd tell him after dinner tonight. Kit nodded to herself; she'd definitely tell him tonight.

Still sitting on the couch and looking down at the piece of paper, her right foot started to jiggle just as a tiny muscle in her eyelid twitched and she knew she couldn't wait until the evening. In a second, Kit was up and out the door, straight to the lift and then around to the phone in the main hallway. Mycroft had left a small white card with his private number. She dialled it without hesitation.

" _Holmes_ ," his voice was unmistakable.

"I can't take it, Mycroft," Kit babbled. "It's not right."

"The job?" there was a sudden sharp edge to his response.

"No, not the job. _The money_."

"The money's not enough?" There was a fractional pause. "I did say I was completely open to negotiation," he added. "What sum did you have in mind?"

"Not _not enough_ , you great wurzel," Kitta knew she sounded exasperated. " _T'is too much_. Far much too much, in fact."

" _Ah_." If such a sound might hold an amused note, then this one did. "I assure you, my dear Miss Penderic," Kit detected the amusement much more clearly now. "That the contract which I hope you will have signed for me by this evening is not remotely too much for what will undoubtedly be the greatest endeavour of your entire professional career."

"I've never been paid so much money before, not for anything," Kit stood, holding the phone to her ear still feeling breathless and slightly shocky. "No nannying job pays this kind of money," she added, determined to stick to her guns. There was a pause at the other end of the conversation.

"But this isn't going to be simply a _job_ , is it, Kit?" Mycroft sounded confident now, as if he had already won the debate. "This is for the rest of your working life ... that's the arrangement I want you to sign for Sherlock and I," he said. "Nothing less than the rest of your life for the Holmes family," he added quietly. "Does that make things a little clearer?"

Kit found that her heart was beating hard. Nobody had ever wanted her, _her_ , enough to ask so much. "It do," she nodded, breathing deep to slow the race of her pulse. "And you're right," she said. "T'is not really a job you're offering, is it?"

"I knew you'd see things my way," there was now a faint note of triumph alongside the amusement. "Do you feel able to accept the contract now?"

"Consider it accepted and signed, Mr Holmes," Kit realised her own voice was a fraction wobbly, but she took another breath and stood straight. "I'll see you later tonight, no doubt."

"Indeed you will, Miss Penderic. I look forward to witnessing Sherlock's continuing attempts to bend you to his will."

"Tonight, then," Kitta was grinning as she replaced the handset. Leaning down to rest the contract on the table in front of her, with a quick signature on the dotted line and an initial at the bottom of the page, it was all done. Standing up straight again, Kit looked around her as if seeing the hallway with its high ceilings and beautifully papers walls for the first time. This was going to be her home now and for the foreseeable future; for better or worse, she'd turned herself into a City dweller; the old Cornish nurse had finally settled down in, of all places, a small mansion in the middle of London.

The rattle of keys at the front door interrupted her brief reverie, as the door swung inwards, allowing a rough-looking and unshaven man of middle years to stamp in carrying a large floor vacuum cleaner, as well as having another one strapped to his back. Neither the man nor the equipment he carried looked overly clean or especially modern. Almost immediately behind him followed a much younger woman and a boy in his late teens, each holding a large box of what looked like cleaning materials. The strangers were, most likely, father and children. It made sense to keep this kind of work in the family.

 _Family_. Kitta felt her mouth curve up at the corners as she recalled Mycroft's words about this being for the rest of her life. That's what families were for too. Stepping out into the middle of the passageway, she clasped her hands in front and just waited for the man to introduce himself. Walking in, not expecting anyone else to be there, he almost bumped into her, stopping only at Kit's polite little cough.

"Who are you?" the man stopped short, a small frown on his face as he took in the woman barring his entry into the rest of the house. Kit smiled privately. She had dealt many a time with rudeness from men, and women too, if it came to that. Nothing to worry about here though, Mycroft Holmes himself had just told her she was wanted here for the rest of her life. It changed things, that kind of perspective.

"My name's Miss Penderic," she said calmly, but with authority. "I'm Mr Holmes' new Housekeeper and one of the things he's asked me to do is to review his cleaning arrangements," she said, not bothering to pause. "I was told you'd already been informed that I was now to take charge of all of domestic arrangements in this household."

"But not including the cleaning," the man smiled unwillingly. He had bad teeth which was a good enough reason not to smile, Kit supposed. "That's been my arrangement for a number of years now, actually."

"Then it's high time such an arrangement was looked at to make sure it still met the needs of the place, don't you agree?" Kit responded smoothly. "Think of me as the new broom about the place, able to see things that perhaps Mr Holmes never got around to seeing," her smile remained. "I realise you were asked to leave his private rooms alone, and that arrangement will continue for both Mr Holmes' suite, as well as mine on the second floor, and that of Mr Holmes' new young ward who also has a suite on the first floor," she added brightly. "I shall be taking care of those rooms personally, but the rest of the house will require significantly more attention than it appears to have been given in the past," she said. "I'm a nurse you see," Kit's smile never faltered. "And us nurses are a bit funny about dirty floors and windows you need to scrape to see through."

"Now hold on a bloody minute ..."

"And you are..?" Kit looked inquiring, still waiting for the man to introduce himself.

"Wheeler, Kevin Wheeler. And I been cleaning for Mr Holmes for a good five years now," the man was almost whining. "He's never had no complaints before now. He's never said nuffin'."

"And these two young people are ..?" Kitta ignored the outburst, smiling at the cleaning assistants.

"I'm Jane and this is my brother, Percy and this ..." the girl's voice trailed away as she turned, waving a hand towards the man. "Is our Dad."

"Well then, Mr Wheeler," Kit's smile was now on high-beam. "Shall I make us all a cup of tea in the kitchen and we can discuss what I'd like to happen with the cleaning from here on in?"

"Not having no woman stand there and tell me my job," Wheeler lifted his chin in high dudgeon. "A job wot I been doing for a lot longer than _she's_ been on the scene," he added, lowering his voice and narrowing his eyes. "In any case, how do I know you're saying wot Mr Holmes actually wants?"

Her smile a thing of true radiance, Kit reached out her hand to lift the phone from its rest. Dialling the number from recent memory, she waited for a familiar voice. "My apologies for bothering you again, Mycroft, but I have a Mr Kevin Wheeler standing beside me who is taking issue with being told how the house needs to be cleaned. I wonder if you'd give a moment of your time to share your thoughts on the matter with the gentleman?" After listening for a few more seconds, Kitta passed the handset over. "Mr Holmes would like a word," she said quietly, the wattage of her smile now sufficient to power a small village for several days.

"Now see here, Holmes ..." Wheeler began.

And abruptly ceased. There was the merest hint of spoken words in the earpiece as the man's shoulders sagged, his complexion paling somewhat, the ravine between his eyes deepened by the second. "But ..."

The susurration from the phone continued then ceased precipitately. Wheeler dropped his hand down, replacing the handset with extraordinary delicacy. He turned, his expression one of distinct unhappiness. "Apparently, you're the new queen of the manor," he muttered, bad-temperedly. "Well you won't be needing _me_ then, will ya?" he sneered. "I don't have to go taking this kind of crap from nobody," his voice grew louder. "I'm out a'here, and you can stuff it," he snarled, turning and stamping back out of the door, slamming it behind him.

Kit looked unimpressed.

"Please, Miss Penderic," the girl looked alarmed. "We need the work; this is a big job for us and just because our Dad has a mouth on him sometimes, it's only 'cos he's done his back in and don't have nothing for the pain," she said. "Besides, me an' Perce would be doing all the work, really, so why don't you tell us what you want and we can take everything from there," the girl, Jane sounded as if she were being completely candid.

"How old are you two?" Kit looked at both of them carefully. "Shouldn't you be in school still?" she examined the boy. He looked young.

"I'm twenty-three, and Perce here is nearly twenty," Jane smiled quickly. "We've been working with our Dad for a couple of years now, since he did his back."

"Is your father seeing a doctor for his injury?" Kit couldn't stop the nurse peering over the shoulder of the Housekeeper.

"Yeah, but all the doc tells him is to rest and stay off his feet and he can't 'cos we need the money," the girl shrugged. "We can't afford to lose a job this big, so me an Perce will be very happy to do everything you want us to do, if that's all right with you?"

Kitta didn't believe in being too much of a soft touch, but the girl sounded genuine ... there would be no harm done if she let them carry on and do what they'd been doing and see if the results improved; she could always end the arrangement if it wasn't working out. Or she could end it all now an start fresh. She stood for a moment in thought.

"Then you two come with me and we'll have that cup of tea I mentioned while I'll tell you what changes I'd like to see in this house," she said. "If you feel up to it, then we can give it a trial, but if not, then we'll go our separate ways and no harm done. Is that agreeable to you?"

Both the young Wheelers nodded in relief, following Kit back into the kitchen that was rapidly becoming the heart of her new domain.

Making tea and setting out some of the biscuits she'd made the other night, as well as some scones left from the previous day, Kitta made sure they both had a bite to eat. A little something in the tummy always calmed people down, she'd found; there wasn't enough blood in the human body to get into a flap _and_ digest food at the same time. She'd already discovered that Sherlock calmed right down if he ate something; that kind of knowledge might be useful as the boy got older and more ... well, just _more_.

"Well now," she sat down and began as she saw the two young ones settled. "This is what I have in mind ..."

Sherlock listened carefully as he heard a raised voice out by the front door followed by a slamming of the same, but as there was no further noise, he ignored the brief interruption of his thinking and settled back into the Library's big leather seat, cradling a wonderful, colourfully-illustrated old book written in archaic French. Since he'd been speaking French since he was four, this was actually one of the books in Mycroft's collection he was able to read, and already the book was greatly entertaining.

It seemed to be all about a young woman in France who was kidnapped and sold by pirates; the rest of the book being an account of her ensuing adventures. The hand-drawn pictures of ships and soldiers and swordfights were all ancient images, as might be expected, but the woman's adventures seemed surprisingly modern, though Sherlock was not entirely sure what _a paroxysm of ecstasy_ actually was. The kidnapped woman, however, seemed to be having quite a lot of them and yet seemed no worse for wear. He settled back into the chair and read more of _Les Beaucoup de Désirs de Antoinette_. The next chapter looked interesting; Antoinette was about to meet a Blacksmith who made handcuffs.

Everything was still quiet in the house by the time Kit had finished explaining what she had seen of the house in her recent explorations, and what she would prefer to see instead.

"Which means that I'm probably going to need you to work more hours rather than less, if it's just the two of you," Kit sipped her second cup of tea as she watched young Percy polish off the last scone. She smiled behind her cup.

"So," Jane was testing the waters very carefully. "You're saying that instead of us coming in every ten days, you'd want us here every week?"

"This is a very large house," Kitta nodded. "I've promised Mr Holmes that I would take personal charge of his private rooms, his office and the Library," she said. "As well as my own rooms and those of Mr Holmes' young ward," she paused. "But there's no way I can see myself getting to do the rest of the house properly before it needs to be done all over again," she added. "And each week I'd want you to do one special cleaning job in addition to doing at least two of the floors ... think you might be able to handle that between you, or would it be too much?"

Jane flattened her mouth, deep in thought. "If it's just the two of us, then we'd definitely need to be here more often than we have been," she said, nodding. "Maybe one day a week will be enough, but if you wanted us to do something _special_ on top ... not sure we'd manage that as well."

"Not with the equipment you've been using, I don't doubt it," Kit sniffed at the memory of the scratched and banged-up vacuum cleaners that Kevin Wheeler had been dragging around. "However, I think I might be able to persuade Mr Holmes to invest in some proper equipment to use around the house, as well as some decent cleaning materials," she peered over at the two boxes of less than useful old rags and undistinguished spray-bottles and cans of ... stuff. "There's some really good antique furniture around the place that needs to be treated with proper respect," Kit looked from one young Wheeler to the other. "I don't want you using none of those nasty-looking harsh chemicals anymore," she said. "Starting from next week, I shall have some better things for you to use, but for today, a bit of dusting and vacuuming from the ground floor up might be a good as place as any to begin."

"We can certainly do that for you," Percy looked keen. "I always told Dad he needed to do this cleaning lark properly if he wanted to pick us a good quality customer-base," he said, smiling. "I did a some Business management courses at the London University," the boy grinned. "I'm going back one day to finish my degree, but I need some serious dosh for that to happen, so the more work the merrier."

"And what about you, my dear?" Kit turned back to the girl. "Is university something you want to get into?"

Poking her brother ungently in the shoulder, Jane's grin was the same as young Percy's. "Not for me, Miss Penderic," she shook her head. "I'm going to get enough cash together to buy a smallholding somewhere out in the country and I'm going to grow flowers for their natural oils," she sounded perfectly serious. "You need a bit of capital to start it up, but once you've got your first couple of crops in, you can make a reasonable living from it; there's a lot of demand for essential oils, you know, especially the really refined stuff."

"Sounds like you both know what you want to do, in that case," Kitta couldn't help but admire their determination. Great oaks from little acorns, indeed. "For today, I can give you the big pot of special furniture polish I bought the other day," she said, handing them a silver-capped jar and a pile of soft rags. "It's the same polish they use in the British Museum; a little goes a very long way. I'd like all the furniture in the main hallway, Drawing room and the Dining Room to be dusted, vacuumed and polished today if you can manage it, including the cushions on all the seats. By next week, I'll make sure to have some proper equipment and cleaning things for you to use, and we can put our heads together and work out a plan of attack to cover the whole house from top to bottom every four weeks," she added.

"Right then," the two young Wheelers were already on their feet. "We'll get started right away, and you can tell us if there's anything else you want us to do when we're finished."

"If you can get through all that lot properly, and I do mean _properly_ , mind you," Kit looked at them from under raised eyebrows. "Then I think we can all have another cup of tea and see where we stand."

"Okeydokey, Missus," Perce grinned again. "Give us a shout if you need anything else while we're here," he said, taking the pile of soft old cloths and the jar of British Museum polish and reading the small print as he and his sister headed for the Hallway.

Shaking her head, Kitta wondered what she'd taken on, then shrugged. These things had to begin somewhere, and with these two, it might as well be here as anywhere else. She wondered if Mycroft would mind forking out for new cleaning equipment; she didn't think so, but all this was still a bit new for her, so she wondered.

Not five minutes away in Whitehall, Mycroft found he still experienced the faint urge to smile every time he recalled Kit's worried little speech about him paying her too much. If she only knew his original plan had been to offer her twice the amount, a plan from which he had only been dissuaded by his legal advisor who announced that the tax office would think there was something decidedly fishy going on were a Nanny to be paid more than the British Prime Minister. Even at half the amount he had originally wanted, Kitta Penderic was on an exceedingly handsome pay scale. And she had rung him to say it was too much.

A smile once again curving the corners of his mouth, Mycroft was about to request the recent CCTV coverage of his Pall Mall address when a slight wave of dizziness made him close his eyes and rest his hands flat on the table until it had passed. It was a sensation he'd had more than a few times in the last two weeks, although having to deal with Sherlock's situation had enabled him to put it to one side. He sighed, finally acknowledging the fact he'd been attempting to ignore for several days now.

He needed to organise his next transfusion. Puffing out his cheeks in a slow exhale, he once again gave thanks that he had found Kitta Penderic. Without her to be around for Sherlock, his brief but necessary absence would have caused all manner of problems. As it was, he merely needed to contact his usual private treatment centre and make the arrangements. Picking up the phone he left a message for Doctor Schyller of the Westminster Haematology Clinic to call him; Schyller had overseen his 'treatment' for the last fifteen years and would understand the nature of the call. It would be a matter of days only before he would need to clear his schedule for forty-eight hours as he underwent the transfusive procedure; one full day to complete the procedure, and a second one to allow his boy to recover from the after-effects which could be ... unpredictable. It took far too long, in his opinion, to get through the entire process but apparently, there was no other way known to medical science. Feeling the very tip of his fangs with the edge of his tongue, Mycroft had a pretty good idea he might be able to do it faster the more, ah ... _natural_ way, but that was something he'd vowed never to do, not while there were still alternatives. After all these hundreds of years, the very idea of taking what he needed by force was anathema to him now. He would probably need to find the time to be absent within the next five or six days; he had to speak with Jude. His fingers depressed the internal intercom button.

"Jude, I will need to clear my schedule within the next week for a period of approximately two days," he said. "The earlier the better; what's the forecast?"

There was a brief pause as his assistant checked all three diaries; the confirmed, the postponed and the pending. "You're fully booked for at least the next ten days, sir," Jude was frowning, Mycroft could hear it in his voice. "There's a number of security committee briefings that you specifically noted you wanted to attend. Then there is an audience with Her Majesty at the weekend to do with the Northern Ireland situation ..."

"I'll still need to clear out two days," Mycroft drew a deep breath. These situations were never convenient, but at least they only occurred twice a year at most. "I have my bi-annual appointment at the Clinic to take care of."

"In that case, sir, tell me which two days suits you and I'll arrange whatever needs to be arranged when I have confirmed dates and times."

It was the most sensible approach, Mycroft realised; he still disliked interrupting his routine for anything like this. "I'm waiting to hear back from the Clinic," he said. "As soon as they can give me a definite appointment, we'll have something to work with. Until then, however, it's back to the coalface. Let me know if there's anything I might possibly be able to move forward to ease the load."

Mycroft was deep into a heavy report on the recently-discovered weaknesses of certain government communication units, the security of which had been sorely tested by the British press who sought to access the classified reaches of Civil Service communiques, when his private desk phone rang. Very few people had this number and he always answered immediately. It was Doctor Schyller. _Good_.

"Mr Holmes," the Swiss-educated medical expert was always soft-spoken. "I have only just received your message, my apologies for the slow response."

"Not at all," Mycroft liked these events to be expedited but he wasn't going to be frantic about it. He still had time.

"Unfortunately, we are faced with a difficult situation at the moment, Mr Holmes," the doctor sounded reluctantly unhelpful. "There was a small fire at the clinic last night, however the ensuing heat and water-damage has rendered our equipment unusable. We have already ordered replacements for everything, of course, but I cannot promise you the Clinic will be able to offer you the usual procedure within a timeframe that you would consider acceptable, certainly not within the next fortnight," the physician paused. "I am dreadfully sorry, sir," Schyller sounded genuinely dismayed. "But you will probably need to seek the service of an alternative medical provider at this time."

 _Damn and blast_. The inconvenience of it all ...

"I appreciate your frankness and concern, Doctor Schyller," Mycroft was at his most urbane. "I fully understand the situation and, though time, or rather the lack thereof is a pressing issue at present, I'm sure I'll manage. Can you recommend another facility in the London area with whom I might make alternative arrangements?"

There was another, longer pause on the phone. "Normally, Mr Holmes, I would be able to have given you the contact details of at least three other medical practices, but it seems we have all be the subject of a recent wave of ill-luck, starting some weeks ago when one of my colleagues in the field suffered a break in and resultant loss of expensive equipment. The rest of us appear to have been the victims of an inexplicable series of events, leaving each of our facilities temporarily unusable. It's most odd and we're all at a loss to explain the situation."

Not only inconvenient, but now decidedly troublesome. Though he wasn't yet at a critical stage, he'd only left things go this long on the assumption he'd not have to wait long when the moment arrived.

Nor did Mycroft believe, not for one cold second, that this litany of woe was anything to do with coincidence. Coincidence was a thing for romantic novels and those who studied the astrological arts. The situation Schyller had outlined spoke not so much of unintentional synchronicity, but of a deliberate and well-laid plan to sever him from the an establish network of support during his one and only moment of weakness.

Resting his chin on steepled fingers, Mycroft's expression was dark as he wondered who had discovered his secret and had decided to try and kill him.


	17. in which questions are asked, theories are considered and plans are laid.

 

The two Wheelers had done a meticulous job between them. Kit saw this in every place she looked as she wandered around the rooms they'd completed. The young pair were still in the process of finishing off the Dining Room, with its heavy-framed oil paintings and of course, the massive long central table. But here, in the Drawing Room, everything that was meant to shine, glowed beautifully, while everything else was completely clean of dust and immaculately in place. Even the pair of small candelabra on the broad mantelpiece had been polished and aligned perfectly symmetrically. The long drape of the heavy curtains at each of the two large windows had been carefully vacuumed from top to bottom and artistically folded. Mycroft's grand piano had come up even more gleaming than usual, the rich deep tone of the ebonised wood perfectly at home in the opulent space; it was astonishing how good things looked when fingerprints and everyday smudges had been polished away. The whole room felt fresher and even more elegant than normal, the extra polish and tidiness about the place making that special bit of difference. Kit nodded, pleased. It would do.

Walking into the Dining Room where Percy was in the process of putting all the equipment and extension leads back into a large trolley, Kitta stood in the doorway and folded her arms, making the same slow sweep with her eyes, inspecting the details of the room as she had in all the other areas on this floor that the Wheelers had completed. Her gaze took in everything, from the shining paintwork around the high skirting-boards, to the gleaming marble fireplace and the perfectly arranged placement of the wide silver candlesticks across the long dark sideboard at the far side of the room. Just as in the other rooms, this one presented itself in a polished new light, with everything arranged just so. It was a gratifying realisation that at least one of the two youngsters was something of a perfectionist. Kit wondered who it was.

"Nearly done, Miss Penderic," Perce stood and stretched his back, tipping his head at the table. "I think the next time I polish that thing, I may as well just wrap myself up in soft cloth and roll around on it,'" he grinned. "Or get a long stick with a polishing pad on the end ... _actually_ ," he looked thoughtful. "Could be a good idea that," he nodded to himself. "Might be worth a go."

Jane walked up and returned the large jar of museum-quality polish, smiling. "That stuff's brilliant," she grinned, looking around at the work she and her brother had accomplished. "A little goes a really long way, but the results are fantastic, and it has such a lovely, old-fashioned kind of smell. I'll have to tell Dad about it; the usual commercial wax-based polish he gets is nowhere near as good."

"And you've both done a really very nice job, I can see," Kit smiled back at them both.

"There's still a bit of time left; we could probably do a bit more somewhere if you'd like?" Perce stood waiting, ready for any forthcoming instructions.

"If you could just clean the stained-glass door in the main entry hall, that would be lovely," Kit was pleased. She'd wanted to do it herself, but it was too tall a door and she didn't have the folding ladder these two had brought with them. "I doubt it will take you more than ten minutes, but it needs a right good clean and I've not been able to get to it yet; it's been that annoying to me."

"Consider it done," Percy was as good as his word, grabbing the ladder, a spray bottle and a wad of cloths.

"Oh, what it's like to be so young and have such energy," Kitta grinned as her eyes followed the young man out of the room.

"So then, Miss Penderic," Jane lifted her eyebrows and looked pensive. "Are you going to be happy with our work?" she asked. "I know today was as much a test as a bit of a clean, so please tell me now if there's anything you're not completely happy with and I'll do it again for you."

"You've both done a lovely job and I can't imagine anyone could do it any better," Kit patted the younger woman on the arm. "I think that if you and your brother are happy to come back the same time next week, we should be able to start work on the overall house plan. With luck, I'll also have that new equipment I spoke of, as well as a goodly supply of the cleaning materials I wants to use in the house," she gazed around, admiring the room all the more now that it was, for the first time since she'd been here, properly beautified and exactly as it should be. "Tell your father that I'll be happy to advise Mr Holmes to maintain the usual daily payment, even if it's just the two of you coming in; see if your old man can't get himself a bit of a rest for a day or so, for that back of his," she added.

Walking out into the main passageway, Kit continued to notice the small details; how the dust along the edge of the hallway's polished boards had been both vacuumed and buffed away; the straightening and realignment of several larger rugs. Even the way the round brass light switch covers had been unscrewed, polished and then replaced. Indeed; these two would certainly do.

Waiting as Perce finished the inner side of the stained glass door and Jane was packing away the last of the cleaning tools, Kitta was thoughtful. "I've been a nurse for a long time," she said. "And many's the time I've had great big lumbering farmers as patients, often because they'd pushed things a bit too hard," she added. "Tell your father to try putting hot water bottles on the muscles around where it hurts, and when his back is good and warm, to hang by his hands from a doorframe," she said. "Just tell him to hang down and let his whole body dangle for as long as he can hold on, and then go and lie down flat on a firm bed with a couple of aspirin or whatever he prefers. See if that don't help him any."

"I'll tell him, Miss Kit, but I'm not sure he'll listen; he's not good at listening right now," Jane shrugged and sounded resigned to her father's bad temper.

"Ah well, he's not the first and won't be the last in that situation," Kit looked philosophic. "I'll see the two of you next week, in that case," Kit held the door open for them as they carted things back down to the van. Obviously, Kevin Wheeler had not sat in the van all day; he'd most likely made his own way home, or to the nearest pub. Pain made people do the most unlikely things.

Realising that time had simply flown and neglecting Sherlock's dinner was hardly the best start to her official new job, Kitta headed back into the kitchen where she'd spent most of the day mending a pile of Sherlock's clothing; ripped seams, missing buttons, drooping hems. Mycroft would probably just say to buy new, but it would be a shame to waste perfectly good gear. She had decided a mildly spicy curry might be just the thing for dinner, and had the pot slowly simmering away when she heard the front door open and close. Was that one of the Wheelers come back? Or was it Sherlock? Why would the boy be going out? About to go and have a look, Mycroft strode into the kitchen heading directly for the freezer, extracting a bottle of vodka and a shot-glass from the glass cupboard. Glancing at the clock, Kit saw that it was barely five. She turned and looked at her employer's face as he poured a measure of the icy spirit and gulped it down.

There's a problem, then," she remarked, putting the kettle on for tea. "Is it something I can be told or no? Does it involve the boy?"

"It's nothing to do with either you or Sherlock," Mycroft poured another measure, knocking it back as swiftly as the first. "Though there may be indirect ramifications," he slowed, placing the bottle on the table before meeting Kit's eyes. "Might I examine the carved stone Sherlock found in your room, please? I never did have an opportunity to see it for myself and I have an odd feeling I really should take a look at it."

"Of course," Kitta left the room immediately not even bothering to ask why. There was surely a good reason for the request.

Mycroft sat at the kitchen table, exhaling slowly. For some reason, he'd been unable to focus his mind in his office; his thoughts turning endlessly towards the two people he knew would be here, waiting for him. A nagging feeling he should be here too had been with him all day, since his talk with Schyller, in fact. He knew his brain was gathering data, that this was how he was able to make his seemingly intuitively brilliant leaps of understanding. There was a conclusion beginning to form in his thoughts, but it was not yet ready to announce itself; he needed more input and he had the strangest feeling that Kitta's unknown stone might somehow be important. He poured himself another shot of the costly white spirit and wished for once that it was possible to get even the slightest bit drunk. Taking the edge of the unusual anxiety that presently gripped him would have brought a welcome relief. Unfortunately, in the losing of his humanity, he had also lost the ability to achieve any form of intoxication; not even poisons had any effect. Hardly surprising, really.

Kit returned, a heavy lump of grey stone in one hand. She placed it carefully on the table in front of him and returned to her previous seat. "Is there something special about it?" she asked leaning forward, her gaze shifting between the stone and Mycroft's face. "It's none o'mine and I never saw it before I unpacked those boxes your people brought up from Plymouth for me."

A smooth piece of shaped granite, just the right size to fit into a man's hand and vaguely cube-like. Lifting it up level with his eyes, Mycroft turned the stone in his fingers until the carved face was clear. The figure Sherlock had drawn on the table was an accurate representation of the enigmatic symbol carved into the stone itself. A Celtic pictogram for eternity, it had long been adopted by the Christian sect as a symbol of the Trinity but it was far older than that, with a meaning that was more than eternal, that had been part of the human race since its inception. _Tridamos_. God of fecundity and replenishment. There was meaning here that called to Mycroft's oldest memories. He nodded to himself. This was a message, and not remotely meant for his Housekeeper. Secreting the thing in Kit's belongings had merely afforded a convenient delivery method. This meant _someone_ was somehow aware of his private arrangements, a worrying development in itself.

"May I borrow this for a while?" Mycroft wanted to be alone to allow the whirls of his thinking to knit into a tight pattern of consensus. He needed quiet and solitude.

"Since it's not even mine to begin with," Kit raised her eyebrows and looked pragmatic, "then you may have'im to keep, if you wants it," she said. "Though you still haven't told me what the problem is ..."

"I'm not completely clear myself," Mycroft admitted. "Though I believe it to have something to do with my past and, quite possibly, my future," he paused, considering his words. "I don't think there is any need for you to concern yourself, or Sherlock, for that matter," he concluded. "I must go to the Library to think."

"Sherlock's been in there all day, reading," Kitta stood to stir the curry. "He's been as quiet as a mouse, so I have no idea at all what the lad's been up to, though it'll likely have to do with the books."

Sherlock in the Library was inconvenient and Mycroft realised he might need to have the child leave. Leaving a thoughtful Kit behind him, Mycroft walked swiftly to the partly-opened double doors, pushing them wide enough to enter. There was no immediate sighting of Sherlock up a ladder or on the mezzanine walkway, so he was most likely ... _ah_. Despite his unease, Mycroft could not help the smile that curved his mouth.

Curled up like a dormouse in an ear of corn, the boy was fast asleep in one of the soft leather armchairs, an opened book beside him. Catching a glimpse of the title, Mycroft felt his eyebrows rise, but knew he'd have to keep _that_ discussion for another time. The child was deeply asleep and unlikely to waken immediately, so Mycroft decided to risk entering his secret den. Pressing the small brass plaque beneath the large painting of he and Granville Holmes, Mycroft waited as the portion of wall directly beneath the painting slid silently back and away; he stepped through, a small lever within returning the wall to its original location. Hurrying down the steps, this time he turned all the lighting on to its highest level; there was something he wanted to see in the clearest possible way. Moving swiftly past the racks of clothing and the detritus of centuries until he came to the central seating area. He turned to face the enormous glass case on the wall about the modularised sofa arrangement, the framed glass box containing the stretched and tanned hide of a grown herd beast. Under the cleverly-positioned lights, and despite its age, the skin's arcane symbols and runes stood clear and easily distinguishable. Almost in the very centre of the hide was a heavily-painted symbol. Raising the lump of granite in his hand level with his eyes, Mycroft looked between the two. The symbols were identical. Not merely similar, but _identical_. These emblems had been created by the same hand.

Directly beneath the central symbol marked so thoroughly onto the hide, was a smaller symbol of three white lines, as if two capital 'T's were joined together, one upright, the second upside-down, so that a single character was formed; an ancient Cornish sign for _Tree_. This was a common Druid sign. His fingertips traced the granite block directly beneath the sign of _Tridamos_ until he was able to discern the faintest of carvings in the stone. The three slight indentations symbolising _tree_ were exactly where he had expected them to be. A heavy wave of unease settled in his chest. There was little doubt in his mind that this stone was connected to the hide that had been given him as protection in his new-born existence so very long ago. Made by the same man? The man ... the _creature_ who had created _him?_ Had his creator been a Druid? Was it possible that whoever had kept him from an ultimate human death, the man who had turned him into ... _this_ , might still be _alive?_ Mycroft realised if he had managed to survive across the centuries, there seemed every likelihood that the creature who made him might have survived them as well.

He also knew there had to be some link to the observers who had been stalking him of recent. Were these _watchers_ also responsible for the sequence of raids on the medical clinics? It seemed unlikely that there would be two such coincidental events-strings. But if so, then who were these people? And how did they know him to be what he was, for they most obviously _did_ know; he looked back to the granite stone. A clearer message could not have been given. Who were the watchers? What did they want? Why would they want to disrupt his transfusion procedure? Was it his life they were after ... or something else?

Mycroft was well aware that his position in the British government had grown more central, more core, over the decades. Though he might have changed his name somewhat and his appearance occasionally, he had been and was increasingly regarded as a critical figure in the defence of the realm. He was too good at solving the big problems, problems similar to those he had witnessed over and over again through the passage of time. He had seen cultures rise and fall and he could say, with an uncanny accuracy, how different nations and the key figures _within_ those nations, would react to certain events. He knew himself to be important, if only because of everything _else_ that he knew.

There had been recent talk of setting up security teams for key individuals, himself being one. Until today, Mycroft had brushed such an idea aside, knowing himself to be far less vulnerable than every other person in London. Were he ever to be attacked, given his virtual immunity to anything that might be considered life-threatening, it was far more likely his attacker would perish than himself. He was, after all, a warrior at heart and extremely practiced in the arts of death.

But now the idea of a security team didn't sound quite so absurd. Now, it wasn't simply his own skin he had to think about. Now there was ... family. He had to decide what to do next, but not down here. Now he needed to allow his mind a time to mull over what he now believed to be fact. A decision would arrive in due course.

Walking back up the steps towards the entrance beneath the painting, Mycroft peered out through two tiny apertures in the painting's ornate frame. He wanted to see if Sherlock were still asleep.

The chair the boy had been in before was now empty. This could mean that he'd gone in for dinner or that he was still in the Library itself. Could he take the risk and exit into the room? If Sherlock saw him emerging from the secret passage, Mycroft knew there would be no chance of maintaining his clandestine bolthole. He paused, waiting.

A flicker of movement caught his eye as the child walked back towards the chair, another book in his white-gloved hands. _Damn_. There would be no opportunity to exit via this doorway. Mycroft sighed irritably. He'd have to use the emergency doorway at the far end of the basement.

Striding without pause down through his now-darkened den, Mycroft made his way past all the shelves of folded coats and boots, moving unerringly through racks of collected curiosities and odd _objets_ until he reached what appeared to be the smooth and solidly concrete rear wall of his lair. Feeling across the level surface of the wall far to his right, Mycroft felt the smallest edge of a stone block. Without pausing, he pressed hard at the join, putting much of his considerable strength into the motion, he felt the entire wall shift, pivoting around a central steel column, enabling him to pass beyond the wall and into the basement proper on the other side. As soon as he released the wall, it swung softly back into place. Though the basement was in complete darkness, Mycroft was easily able to make his way past the heating and cooling systems for the house across to a more conventional exit at the top of a small flight of stairs. In a second, he was out in the main passage directly beside the entrance to the lift on the ground floor. Returning to the kitchen where Kit was getting things ready to serve dinner.

"And where have you just been?" she demanded, staring at him with a curious look on her face. Glancing down, Mycroft saw there was a great line of cobweb clinging to him from tie-pin to kneecap. He must have picked it up when he pushed his way through the emergency exit into the basement. He swiftly dusted himself off. "I must have brushed up against one of the doors," he murmured.

"Not one on either of these two lower floors, you didn't," Kit folded her arms and gave him a speculative stare. "The cleaners were in today and they done a fantastic job. There's no way they would have missed something like that," she paused. "Nor have I seen anything of the sort in the Library," Kit sounded doubtful. "So where in this house do we have cobwebs the size of skipping-ropes?"

Realising that it wasn't only Sherlock who was practiced in observing things, Mycroft relaxed. He had been so caught up in his concerns that he'd forgotten there was another person who would be able to listen to him now.

"Did you sign the contract?" he asked, belatedly.

I put it on your desk," Kitta nodded. "Both copies," she peered at him sideways. "Are you going to tell me what the trouble is or not?"

Sinking down into the chair he'd vacated less than ten minutes before, sat, thoughtful for a moment. "I believe someone from my past, my very distant past, might be trying to get in contact with me," he said, eventually.

Kit sat down as well. "When you say the _past_ ," she hesitated, staring down at the table top. "You don't mean a few years ago, do you?" she looked up and met his eyes. "You mean _really_ in the past ... how long?"

"Almost as far back as it's possible for me to go," though there were a dozen different threads of serious thought whirling around in his head, he looked and sounded remarkably calm. "I think it might even be the man who made me."

"The man who made you what?" Kit looked momentarily confused, but then stopped, suddenly, her eyes widening in realisation. "Oh ..." she nodded slowly. " _That_ man." Pondering the idea for a few seconds, she tilted her head. "Would he still be alive after all this time?"

Mycroft smiled fractionally. "I am," he said. "I see no reason for him not to be," he gave the slightest of shrugs. "The law of probability argues there is likely to be quite a number of us, scattered around. Given that I am virtually impervious to physical injury, illness and aging, I can quite easily imagine that I am not alone ..." he paused, a strange look crossing his face. "That perhaps I have never actually been alone," he added. "Though to my knowledge, none of my kind have ever attempted to contact me before."

"Then why now?" Kit frowned as she rested both hands on the table. "Why now, after all these years of nothing?"

" _That_ , my dear Miss Penderic, is something I intend to discover," he smiled.

"What is it you intend to discover, Mycroft?" Sherlock walked into the kitchen tucking his shirt back into his trousers as he made his way to the sink to wash his hands.

"Whether or not you knew what was in that book you were reading in the Library," Mycroft moved easily into the different topic, linking his fingers together as he lifted his eyebrows.

Disguising her smile, Kit went to serve dinner for her and the boy.

Sliding into what had become his default place at the table, Sherlock leaned forward, resting his arms in front of him. "You mean the book about Antoinette?" he asked, grinning. "It's a great book! It's got pirates and sea-battles and exotic castles and treasure and _everything_."

"And Antoinette?" Mycroft was doing a remarkable job of keeping his face perfectly solemn.

"Oh yes, and Antoinette," Sherlock nodded. "She's brilliant really," he said. "She gets into all sorts of trouble like being kidnapped by the pirates and then getting lost in the desert and having to sleep in all sorts of strange places, but she's always very brave even when she has to share a bed with a complete stranger," the boy looked momentarily unsure. "I don't know why she has so many men friends though," he said. "The book says she's very beautiful, so that might be the reason but I think it's something else," he concluded, pausing. "What's a paroxysm of ecstasy?"

Over by the stove, Kit choked, covering the sound with a few loud coughs. Though she remained firmly facing away from him, Mycroft saw her shoulders shake a few times before she cleared her throat. Turning, her face was the epitome of innocence as she served Sherlock his dinner of curry and rice, setting out her own plate a moment later with a cool glass of water for them both. She sat and began to eat, saying absolutely nothing.

Despite the fact that Kitta was a nurse and that Sherlock was ferociously intelligent, Mycroft decided that the dinner table was perhaps not the best place or time for such a discussion. "I'm sure Miss Penderic will be able to lend you one of her medical texts to explain the technical details, won't you, Kit?" he smiled, confidently.

Kit held her fork still and looked as if she were thinking hard. "Not sure I can do that, Mr Mycroft," she said eventually. "None o'my books talk about anything like that, I'm positive of it," she said, looking inordinately sincere. She poked at the rice on her plate. "Besides, I reckon it's the kind of thing that might be best coming from a man of the world," she added, the smallest hint of a grin cracking her impossibly virtuous expression as she continued to eat.

Narrowing his eyes, Mycroft let his gaze call her a traitor as Sherlock ploughed into his dinner unaware of the conversation flying above his head. "When you have quite finished eating, Sherlock," Mycroft kept his eyes on Kit as she ate her food with every evidence of enjoyment, "I shall have the car take us to visit Waterstones and you may begin your collection of books. Do you have your list?"

"In my room, I'll go and get it ..." the boy dropped his fork, preparing to head off that instant.

"Not so fast, young man," Kit waved him back into his seat. "You are going to clear at least half of that plate _without_ rushing, before you go anywhere," she added. "I'm not having you go out half-starved and then running out of energy and have people thinking I'm not feeding you properly."

"Indeed, Sherlock, there's plenty of time," Mycroft checked his Hunter. "I'll be in my office when you're ready," he said, standing. "I have several phone calls to make in the meantime. Arrangements to check. Take your time."

Realising he was entirely under Kit's watchful eye, Sherlock resettled into his chair, picking up his fork. "I don't think I'll be able to get all my books tonight," he said, chewing. "My list is quite long now."

"I'm sure Mr Mycroft will be happy to take you to as many bookshops as you want," Kitta sipped her water. "It's as good excuse for him to look at them as it is for you, don't forget."

"I'll have to ask him to get me some more book cases for my room, too," the boy continued. "I'm already nearly out of space."

"Didn't Mycroft say something about turning the old schoolroom into a library and a study for you?" Kit cast her mind back. "I'll remind him; I want a phone here in the kitchen and one up in my room as well," she added. "So I don't have to run down to the hallway whenever it rings."

"I'll ask him, shall I?" Sherlock finished most of his plate and heaved a sigh. "I'm full. Can I go now?"

"Go and get your blue jacket," Kit said. "I've mended the pocket and re-sewn the buttons on the cuffs; it's hanging up in the laundry for you."

"Great, thanks!" A small whirlwind flew out the door through the old Butler's Pantry. In a matter of seconds, it blew back through and out along the passage.

Kit smiled as she cleared the table. It was good that the lad seemed to be settling into his new life so well; it would have gone hard for Mycroft if Sherlock was visibly suffering.

Mycroft had just ended the last of his calls, checking in with the CCTV analysts to ensure they would have the cameras focused most clearly and intensively around the largest nearby Waterstones bookshop. He had decided to take Sherlock there because it would still be busy at this time of the early evening, but also because the area had one of London's highest concentration of CCTV surveillance. If anyone followed him there tonight, they would be spotted and identified and Mycroft would turn from prey to hunter.

"Ready?" he stood, smiling at the boy shot into his office, several rolled up sheets of paper in his hand. His nascent library.

"May I see?" Mycroft wasn't interested in censoring the contents of Sherlock's wish-list, but more so that he could work out if any specialist bookshops needed to be investigated, something that Mycroft always enjoyed. He did hope that Sherlock's list was as eclectic as the boy himself.

Nor was he disappointed.

Science of all stripes and flavour, from Darwin's _Voyage of the Beagle_ , to Dawkin's _Selfish Gene_ ; topics covering everything from crystallography to micrographia and back. Squinting a little at Sherlock's hurried scrawl, Mycroft was also able to make out a plethora of history titles; Warcraft, ballistics, battle tactics, accounts of famous campaigns. He raised his eyebrows at the series of titles based in the forensic sciences; investigations of criminal fraud, of sociobiology ... and that was only the first page. The catalogue of titles that followed covered every major area of human endeavour, but was heavy on the sciences. What was notable by its absence was the title of any fictional text. None of the great classics; no Dickens or Tolkien or Lewis; no Dumas or Shelly or Scott.

They were already at the Jaguar by the time he raised his eyes to look about him, and Mycroft wondered, for a moment, if the watcher was in the vicinity. If so, he'd have to be able to track the car well, for where they were going, it would be busy, with a lot of pre-theatre traffic.

"How many of these may I get tonight?" Sherlock scooted across to the far end of the seat as Mycroft returned the list of books, hoping he could get enough to keep him in reading material for at least a week. He crammed the list in his pocket.

"Let's try for ten this evening and then, when you've read them through well enough to discuss the main arguments in each one, we can repeat the exercise," Mycroft looked down at the much tidier crop of dark curls.

"Ten _really_ thick ones?" Sherlock looked up smiling, pleased.

"Whichever ten you wish," Mycroft smiled back, a sudden tightening of feeling in his chest. For better or for worse, Sherlock was his responsibility now, his to care and protect. The very notion that some strange and possibly threatening entity was roaming London and watching him and his household made Mycroft clench his jaw. None of his _family_ would come to harm, he promised himself that. And perhaps, after this evening's little excursion, the problem might not be so pressing. He had chosen to take Sherlock to the one bookshop in London that was not only under around-the-clock surveillance, but also had recently installed internal cameras as well. Mycroft knew this for a fact as he had been consulted on their placement. Not only a large and well-stocked emporium of books and the printed word, but a location that might afford the best possible opportunity to catch whoever was stalking him.

They were going to Trafalgar Square.


	18. in which strangers are sometimes more than strange.

 

Though the city was still bustling at this early hour of the evening, the peak traffic surge had begun to ease and the Jaguar made it to the bookshop in a matter of minutes. Finding a parking space with the double-yellow lines everywhere was less easy but with so much movement in the area, Mycroft was certain his driver would locate one shortly.

"Those lions look like the ones in the Library, Sherlock looked through the car's window at the nearest of the four great bronze beasts at the foot of Nelson's Column. "But these are bigger."

"Indeed they are," Mycroft nodded. "The marble ones in the Library are eight feet high; those guarding the Column are more than twenty-two feet tall and twenty feet long."

"Was Nelson a good man?" Sherlock stared upwards at the statue gracing the top of the towering column in the centre of the square, everything brightly lit and illuminated for the evening tourist crowd.

_Was Nelson a good man?_

Mycroft recalled the first time he'd met the National hero; one evening at the Theatre Royal in London's Drury Lane in 1797. Sarah Siddons was the star actress in the Drury Lane Company's rendition of _Hamlet_ of which she played a somewhat mature Ophelia. The theatre was a colossal building, with multiple tiers of seats and many large boxes; locating a seat in one of the smaller boxes above the stage was never easy, and despite the fact that such particularly good seats cost a small fortune, one could never be sure with whom the box might be shared. It might be the young and glorious Prince Regent or some wealthy cotton-merchant down in the Capital in search of cultured entertainment. On this particular evening, the small group that had taken most of the box's ten seats was the entourage of the great man himself; Lord Nelson and his wife, Frances.

Dressed soberly in a long black evening tailcoat, with immaculately fitted pantaloons, a crisp white shirt and a pristine linen cravat of fashionable, though relatively modest dimensions, Mycroft found himself drawn charmingly into the evening's party, though he was content to remain quiet and allow the hero of the hour to do most of the talking. Which Nelson appeared quite happy to do, most of it being about his experiences during his various commands and the nature of the seas in different parts of the globe. He was especially forthcoming about the Spanish coastline to which, it seemed, he had become extraordinarily attached.

"Beautiful waters," Nelson sipped his Madeira wine and smiled. "Wonderful climate. Were it not for the Spanish, I'd quite like to keep a residence there myself."

"There is Gibraltar, of course," Mycroft avoided the sweet liquor in favour of a brandy that had seen the inside of a French oaked barrel for a goodly number of years. Given the delicate relationship between Britain and France at that present moment, he wondered how such a choice libation had made it into London at all ... the smugglers had a great deal to answer for, he presumed. Ignoring the ethical issues of drinking contraband, Mycroft signalled the waiting servant to refresh his glass.

"Gibraltar's more British than Britain," Nelson sniffed moodily. "Even the demmed houses are more Kensington Gardens than they are Madrid. Can't for one minute understand why anyone would want to have a small, dark stone cave instead of an open-air palace with the Southerlies blowing through the open windows," he nodded his head towards his wife. "Even Fanny, who was born in the Colonies, agrees with me," he said. "She's not too keen on London either, and we much prefer Bath, though _privately_ ," he added, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a confidential level. "Given my druthers, I'd prefer not to be on land at all; the sea is my mistress and well my wife knows it."

"And will your next campaign be as successful as all the others?" Mycroft couldn't help the question; so often Nelson had seemed on the very edge of failure.

"What makes you think there'll be another campaign, sirrah?" the tall man leaned away, his pale grey eyes growing suspicious and peering sideways. "You connected with the Admiralty?"

"I believe you to be the kind of man for whom there will always be another campaign," Mycroft smiled, toasting the Hero of Cadiz with his glass of brandy and carefully saying nothing at all about his current masters.

That evening was the last time Mycroft had an opportunity to converse with the man himself, though he naturally kept abreast of Nelson's adventures and escapades. His _liaison_ with Emma Hamilton was the talk of the town for quite some time, until, in fact, the day he took ship and sailed for the Mediterranean in 1805 and the start of the Trafalgar Campaign. Though his remaining battles were marvellously fought and won, Nelson was never to see the shores of his homeland again. But was he a good man?

"He served this country bravely and to his last," Mycroft answered Sherlock's question. "But he was as human as the next man and thus imperfect," he added, as the Jaguar pulled smartly into a newly vacant parking spot.

Stepping onto the pavement outside Waterstones, Mycroft took his time to look around, noting the location of each and every CCTV camera in the vicinity; he would take the greatest care to remain simultaneously within the sight of as many of them as possible both outside the shop and in. Gripping his umbrella firmly he looked around for his young ward. Already plastered up against the nearest plate-glass window, Sherlock's eyes were scanning every title, every name; the colours of the different covers as enchanting to him as Christmas tree fairy lights. Despite the situation, Mycroft felt the now-usual smile trying to curve the corners of his mouth. He had all but forgotten the joys of exploring a bookshop with another person. Hopefully, he would be able to restrain Sherlock to only ten books, at least until the old school-room had been renovated into the child's study, a project that was already in hand.

Taking one last look around the thinning crowd on the pavement, Mycroft drew the boy into the nearest entry and into the bright lights and warm fragrance of books and paper and all things civilised.

Nearest the main entrances, of course, were the tall racks and wide display of the very latest releases and best sellers, few of which were likely to be on Sherlock's list, however it was at least worth a quick peruse; one never knew what was going on in a publisher's mind these days. Upon a swift review of the immediate offerings, Mycroft was moderately pleased to find amidst the dross of popular releases, several titles relating to contemporary discovery in nuclear medicine and the increasingly popular computer science. He leaned over and helped himself to a couple of the shiny new texts. There was also what appeared to be a highly reputable biography of Alexander Fleming, in whose 1945 Nobel acceptance speech ... but _wait_ , Mycroft found himself suddenly drawn to a fine, hardbound copy of the edited series of the Christmas Lectures for the last one hundred years ... he had not been able to attend each of these in person, so to finally be granted an opportunity to read all those he had missed ... a thick tome was quickly added to those already clutched to his chest.

There was a small but highly calculated cough at his side.

Looking around for Sherlock, Mycroft was mildly surprised to see the boy standing patiently, his arms folded and a peculiar expression of forbearance on his face. Abruptly conscious of the unexpectedly large collection of books held tightly in his own arms, Mycroft raised his eyebrows and spoke lightly. "I've been too busy of recent to keep abreast of the latest publications," he waved his free hand. "You are not the only one who savours the delights of reading."

"Though I see that you already have six books and I have got none at all," the boy narrowed his eyes and looked marginally put out. "The signs say the science section is up on the next floor; can we go there now?"

"Indeed we can," Mycroft began a dignified stroll between the wide avenues of new books, each passing section a delight to the eye, a sirenic call to the mind. But one did not exist in this world relatively unscathed for almost two thousand years without establishing a firmness of character that would enable him to bypass these artful invitations to dalliance. He was rather proud of himself when he finally arrived in the designated area with only an additional two hardbacks tucked carefully into the crook of his left arm.

Looking around, Sherlock ran first to the broad section on the chemical sciences, unrolling his list and searching for names and titles. This enabled Mycroft to once again cast his eyes over the assembled ranks of beauties awaiting his pleasure ... the scientific biography section was sufficient for him to rest his existing pile of books on a nearby table, only so he might more easily reach out for those texts he realised he simply had to have: _Kepler_ , _Newton_ , _Lovelace_ , _Shoemaker_. Glancing across to where Sherlock was dutifully going through his carefully enscribed list, Mycroft noticed another section, this one on emerging scientific fields. Quantum Biology; Cliodynamics; Superconductivity ... Mycroft brought the desired tomes quickly into his embrace lest he be coughed at again.

"Would sir find this helpful?" a young man in a blue shirt and tie was appeared at the edge of his vision with a tall, narrow wire basket on two small wheels, a more than ample size to contain his current plunder with space for Sherlock's choices as well. _Excellent_.

"Thank you ..." Mycroft was about to offer a comment on the excellent rage of publications in the store, when his eye was caught by a man standing some fifteen feet away at the top of the wide stairs leading back down to the ground floor. A man standing so very still; unnaturally so, in fact. A man who was staring directly at _him_.

The shop assistant departed, off to wherever he was next needed, and Mycroft was very much aware of Sherlock standing only a few feet away, the boy utterly engrossed in the banquet of books laid out before him. Blinking his eyes upwards, Mycroft refreshed his memory on the precise location of the newly-installed security cameras and he felt, given both the public nature of the situation as well as the safety of the surveillance, it would be relatively safe to engage with this stranger. The police would be summoned the instant any physical threat appeared imminent. He slid his free right hand slowly into his coat pocket where his fingers quickly located the slim device containing a silent alarm. Sliding a thin plastic guard to one side, he pressed the single button that sat beneath. In that instant, a relayed radio-signal would be alerting the duty CCTV analyst to pay extraordinarily good attention to the camera-feed originating both inside and outside of Waterstones Trafalgar Square premises, especially on the video of anyone within eyeshot of himself. Given that there were only three people in the current view, it wouldn't be difficult for his people to know whom he wanted watching. Everything that happened until he pressed the signal a second time would be recorded from at least a half-dozen different angles. If anything _unfortunate_ took place, he could protect both Sherlock and himself against ... against whatever might require his protection, but nothing would escape the unsleeping eye of the cameras. He stood his ground and waited. The stranger half-lidded his eyes and stared directly back, a faint look of distain and amusement written across his face.

The man was tall, _big_. He had broad shoulders and a wide chest and stood without the least iota of excuse for his size and the amount of space his body needed. His skin was fair and the tint to his hair and beard was golden with more than a hint of ginger. Pale blue eyes stared expressively across the brightly-lit space at Mycroft, assessing as much as being assessed. Dressed well, though not showily. Mycroft observed the newcomer favoured expensive natural fibres and leather in his clothing beneath a dark leather coat. The style of the clothing was contemporary but with a Savile Row edge that suggested a regular presence in London. There was nothing of the artificial or synthetic about the man who even had a hint of fur at his collar and the glint of gold at his throat. Wealthy, obviously, and clearly used to personal power and authority of some kind. Though his hair was worn loose, it had been recently trimmed, as has his beard been carefully sculpted into shape. _So_ , Mycroft summarised; a strong, authoritative man of unapologetically untamed habits, determined to fit in just enough with society as to be relatively unnoticed. Unnoticed, that was, until somebody actually stood and took a _very_ good look. In an instant, Mycroft realised this man had been the one watching him. Whether he was the only one doing the watching was still up for clarification, but Mycroft knew, without any doubt, that the big man in the big coat had followed him here this evening from the Pall Mall house and had probably been the unseen shadow in the park outside the school in Eccleston Square.

Though his initial and almost overwhelming temptation was to speak with the newcomer, Mycroft could not leave Sherlock alone in the shop, nor, until he was more able to map out the complete and relative danger the stranger might bring, could he even step away from the child, leaving him openly vulnerable. Who knew how many others like this man might be in here? All he could do was stand guard, making himself an insurmountable obstacle between Sherlock and the rest of the world. Unrealised, Mycroft stood taller, his feet resting a little further apart, his hands gripping the umbrella with an undeclared yet unmistakable intention. If violence was about to ensue, then the strange man, no matter who ... or _what_ he was, would find that Mycroft had not lost the aptitude of his fighting past.

Eyebrows rising mockingly, an unpleasant half-grin reshaped the strange man's bearded face and he mouthed a single word; _Later._ Turning swiftly, he headed back down the stairs and out of sight.

The entire confrontation was over so swiftly that Mycroft wasn't exactly sure what had passed between them, and he maintained his alertness even though his body relaxed back into a more normal stance. The man had come here clearly knowing his prey would be present, so the meeting was anything except accidental. Perhaps he too was weary of his shadowy game and wished to bring some more tangible presence to their relationship ... whatever that might be. The briefest of glances assured him Sherlock was still happily engrossed in his book search, and there was nobody else in the vicinity near enough to pose a problem either as a secondary threat or as an inconvenient witness. Knowing the man would have to leave the area, more than likely heading back towards Pall Mall at some point given his single-worded message, Mycroft refrained from cancelling the camera-tracking order just yet. Let CCTV follow the stranger for as long as possible; the more information that might be gathered about his behaviour, the better. Who knew what revelations the night might bring? He allowed his spine to ease marginally from its rigid posture.

And in the meantime, there was still the matter of Sherlock's personal book collection. Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, Mycroft returned to the here and now, observing that while the boy had accumulated a moderately decent sized pile of texts, it did not yet match his own collection. Smiling a little ruefully, Mycroft knew he could not demand Sherlock be satisfied with fewer books than himself, and began to fill the small wheeled basket with his own selection before walking to Sherlock's side.

"There are many other sections than this one," he said. "Would it be more interesting to gather a wide assortment of texts rather than selecting all fifteen from the one discipline?"

"Fifteen?" Sherlock looked up. "You said ten, before."

"Ah yes," Mycroft brought the wheeled basket into view. "I cannot, in all fairness restrict you a lesser number than my own purchases," he indicated the piled books. "And I also hope you will permit me to archive my choices in your new study once it's been built as I have very little room remaining in the Library at home. You may, of course, treat them as your own."

"May I have lots of shelves for new books and a proper big desk for writing and with drawers to keep things in and a really big place to pin things up on the wall?" Sherlock's eyes widened at the thought he was really going to get a proper place of his own to work in ... which, naturally, led to _another_ idea ... "And might it have some room for a small laboratory?" he added, hopefully.

Examining the titles of the books the boy had chosen, Mycroft observed once again that there was nothing of great literary merit; that each of the titles was scientific and rational; all very worthy, of course, but feeding only one part of the mind. The child needed to nurture his creative side as well, the part of his mind that embraced fantastic possibility and leaped from reality to imagination and back.

"A working laboratory is not usually placed within the confines of a library or an office for very good reasons," Mycroft spoke softly as he scanned the nearby shelves around him for something to leaven the boy's selection. But there was nothing in this section of the shop that would do. He needed to locate the classical texts department, recalling a sign on the ground level that indicated the rear part of that floor should offer some suitable alternatives. "If you're done up here, I recommend we seek additional options on the floor below," he added. "And I will think about the _possibility_ of a space for a small laboratory."

Piling his selected books on top of the ones Mycroft had already placed into the wheeled basket, Sherlock followed his guardian to the top of the stairs noting how easily Mycroft picked up the entire basket in one hand to carry it down to the ground floor. There were almost thirty solid and very substantial volumes in the basket; it must have been tremendously heavy, yet his guardian lifted the entire thing without a single indication that it was heavier than a box of cornflakes. Sherlock acknowledged such strength was unusual.

Downstairs, they made their way towards a thickly-populated part of the store, both by people and bookshelves. While not being as openly displayed as the best-sellers at the front entrance, the texts here were still lavishly available, the shelves wide and easily accessible, the books themselves colourful and inviting.

"Have you read any of these?" Mycroft indicated Sherlock should look at the titles. After a few seconds, the child wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "Neither Daddy or Mummy had any books that weren't about maths or science," he shrugged, looking sideways at some the book cover of _Frankenstein_. It did, admittedly, look unexpectedly interesting.

"It's not enough to know a science and how it came to be," Mycroft murmured, selecting a few books and adding them to the basket. "One also needs to be aware of how the rest of society saw these great new inventions and discoveries," he said, locating a couple more. "The reaction of people to new ideas will often provide invaluable clues as to their thinking and subsequent actions."

"So, in order to understand how discoveries were made in Chemistry, I need to read stories about how the general public behaved?" Sherlock tried to fit this understanding into a rational shape; it wasn't working.

"Try this," Mycroft handed him the story of Shelly's Gothic monster. "It's got a lot to do with how people saw early experiments in electricity."

Shrugging, Sherlock wasn't about to argue when it meant he was going to end up with more than thirty new books to read; far more than he'd seriously hoped to get his hands on in one go.

"And now I believe it's time for us to return home," Mycroft smiled mildly at the two young men behind the counter who were wrapping and bagging the unusually large number of purchases. _Of course_ he would be delighted if they brought the books out to the car for him, his smile grew fractionally wider. Apparently they appreciated having customers who appreciated buying books. He made a note to return to this particular shop when Sherlock required further additions to his collection.

It was only once they were in the car and taking the few minutes to drive back to the Pall Mall address that Mycroft mentally reviewed the safeguards he'd already put in place for just such a possibility as the meeting that would likely take place tonight. Once Sherlock and Kit were safe inside, he would step out and walk away from the locale. There were plenty of parks in the area; Mycroft had no doubt he would meet up with his strange visitor at some point. At the same time, a number of security personnel would make it their job to ensure that nobody else was able to enter the house by _any_ means until his return and personal authorisation. These particular security people would be armed and perfectly at home with the idea that death was not a remarkable condition. Only by knowing his family were entirely safe could he leave them; this plan had been in the making for quite some time now, the recent upgrade to his security alarms, with the new sensors and cameras completing a decision he had made long before Sherlock had become his ward or Kitta Penderic had agreed to spend the rest of her life with the Holmes family.

The Jaguar took them swiftly home and Mycroft permitted his driver to bring in the multiple bags of heavy books. "Leave them in the hallway," Mycroft smiled faintly, indicating the driver should place the bags on the floor by the side-table. "We'll take care of them from here," he added. "Thank you; that will be all for tonight. Please go and enjoy the evening with your family."

After bringing the last of the heavy paper carrier bags in, the man nodded, smiled briefly and left, the sound of the car's powerful engine fading off into eventual silence.

Mycroft knew what he had to do now, and though personal fear was something he had not felt for a very long time, he had never before had a family dependent upon him. There was a sense of something approaching urgency in his chest; not fear exactly, but fear's cousin. Whatever happened, he had to return to them; whatever transpired later, he promised himself he _would_ make it back to this place and these people. Something of his grim determination must have made itself visible in his expression as he stood in the kitchen paying peripheral attention to Sherlock's enthusiastic account of the big bookstore.

"Looks like there'll be enough reading to keep everyone happy and out of mischief for a goodly while, in that case," Kit's words were for the boy, but her eyes were solely for the man. "Keeps people busy, will all that reading," she nodded, her gaze entirely focused on Mycroft's face.

He smiled at that. How he ever imagined that Kit Penderic wouldn't see right through his carefully mounted campaign ... Mycroft met her probing inspection with a measured smile. "I'm going out shortly," he said by way of explanation. "I have an important ... meeting to attend, but I need to be sure that you and Sherlock are going to be ... _entertained_ while I'm away," his calculated smile flashed wider. "Call me foolish, but I still marvel at the fact that I now have people who wait up for me," his lifted his eyebrows. "You have no idea how much that changes the complexion of my life and the concerns I have to address," he added softly, an indifference in his voice that neither of them believed. Both watched Sherlock, already laying out the contents of one Waterstones bag on the kitchen table, the boy oblivious to everything else around him. About to return to the front door, Mycroft felt Kit's hand suddenly on his arm.

"I don't know what kind of meeting this is intended to be," she spoke quietly, but with an urgency of tone, her dark eyes locked on his. "But I can tell it's a damn sight more than the usual ones you get to in your fancy office during the day," she said. "Just you make sure you go into it with your eyes wide open and a strong wall at your back," she added. "I have no clue what it is you're going to be doing, but I have the strangest feeling you might do with a bit of extra luck," she paused, reaching over to her glasses-case, perched on the table. Digging out a modest item, she pressed it hard into his palm. "T'is nothing but a fancy," Kit breathed, "But take it for me and the boy; t'is a piece of star-iron and it have always been of good fortune for me."

Rounded with wear and warm from her hand, Mycroft looked down at the small but surprisingly heavy piece of meteorite, the weight of the rock-fragment solid in his hand. He smiled again. He would not do to have Kit worrying about him. "I am going to meet the man who has been following me and who, I believe, has been trying to contact me for some reason. I need to ascertain who this man is, what he wants from me and where he stands in my affairs," he said. "Until this meeting has taken place, I cannot be sure of the future of my household," he added. "And that is not an acceptable way for me to live," his smile flicked again as he slid the good luck token into a pocket. "But please don't fret; I'll not be alone and I am very good at dealing with difficult people." Nodding once, he turned and walked out of the kitchen towards the front door and to whatever lay beyond.

 

 **Note** :

Work is manic at present and the next couple of updates might be a little longer in arriving than usual. Bear with me.


	19. in which Mycroft has a glimpse of the past and the future.

 

It was properly dark as Mycroft slipped out of the house. He looked around carefully, not because he was uneasy, but because when you live for a very long time, you cannot help but adopt certain survival habits. One of the most important of these was to know exactly what situation it was you were about to step into before you actually did.

Given the fairly central nature of Pall Mall in the configuration of London's main traffic-flow, the area was strangely still and quiet for such a relatively early hour in the evening. Looking carefully as far down the wide thoroughfare in both directions, Mycroft could see no obvious reason why this might be so. It was probably just one of those occasional lulls in traffic due to bad weather or roadworks somewhere. Looking up, he saw the pale glimmer of a full moon in a clear sky, and in the darkness stretching away to his either side, there was no tell-tale yellow flash of construction safety-lights. _Hmm_.

He had no idea where the contact would be made, nor by whom, nor even exactly when, though he speculated it would be by the bearded man from the bookshop. The man had said 'later' in the way one did when confirming a personal appointment, not an appointment made for someone else. Not knowing which was the best way to go, Mycroft headed for St James's Square Park, mere minutes from the house and, at this time of evening, long closed to the public. Apart from the odd fox or two, the entire place would most likely be deserted and it seemed the ideal place for a meeting of a semi-clandestine nature. He favoured the idea of a large, open space; in a worst-case scenario where he could neither fight nor resist, he could always retreat back to his house in far less time than it had taken him to walk to the park.

That the garden square was heavily fenced with ornate black steel railings, its gates locked and barred against the usual run of intruders mattered not in the least. Knowing without question there was no other living soul in the near vicinity, Mycroft laid one hand on the top of the nearest tall gate and pulled himself up and over in a single smooth action without any evidence of strain. Walking towards the middle of the wide-open grassy sward, he crossed black shadows of tall trees laid in stripes across the well-mown moonlit lawn. Everything about the place was silent. The hoot of a distant owl and the occasional bark of a dog were all that marred the absolute and increasingly unusual quietude of the entire area. No sounds of people or car-engines came near. To any unknowing bystander, this would seem the loneliest of places, yet he had told Kit that he'd not be alone and he wasn't. The cold eyes of several CCTV cameras watched over the centre of the garden, almost precisely where he now stood, in fact.

And it was in this excessive and lonely quiet that the unmistakable slap of heavy footsteps on concrete pavement rang out like small gunshots. Following the approaching sounds, Mycroft turned to face the big man in the leather coat as he too pulled himself lightly over the top of the gate, landing without sound on the soft grass.

Mycroft stood his ground, observing the stranger as he walked closer, watching how he moved, if there was any hint of weakness about his person. But there was none. Despite his bulky size, the stranger stalked across the garden's lawn like a predatory big cat; a big-maned golden lion in his prime. When he was no more than fifteen feet away, Mycroft shifted his stance to lean easily on the handle of his umbrella, its steel ferule set firmly in the ground. "I usually like to know the name of the people I meet in dark places," he said calmly. "And since you clearly know who I am, it seems poor form to keep your name to yourself."

Sliding his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, the bearded man tilted his head slightly to one side as he considered the question. "I have been known as Daveth," he said in a slow, mellow voice, nodding as if remembering. "A very long time ago. It is a name you might use, if you wish."

" _Daveth_ ," Mycroft narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he appraised the name. "I do not recall ever meeting you before, and yet you have been following me for some time now. Why is that?"

The man Daveth smiled a big, genuine smile. "I have been watching you for far longer than you might imagine ... _Mycurrought_ ," he looked knowing, as if there were many secrets behind his pale eyes.

 _Mycurrought_. He had not heard that name spoken by a stranger in almost two thousand years. He had left no trail, nothing that might link the Mycroft Holmes of today's London with Mycurrought of Isca. That particular past no longer existed; he had taken great pains to make it so, ensuring it was nothing more than a dusty, fading echo of a very long time ago. And yet ... if Daveth _knew_ the name, knew it unequivocally enough to bind his credibility up with the thing, then Mycroft realised he had to find out everything this man could tell him.

"That is a very old name," he said, eventually. "So old, it no longer exists."

"But it _does_ exist, Mycurrought," Daveth stepped a little closer. "And I also know it has walked this earth for a long time, I know this for a fact."

Mycroft felt a strange tension in his chest. How did this man know him? His pulse would have been rising quite rapidly at this point if he still had one. "Who are you?" he asked, sensing the answer even before the words left his mouth.

Daveth grinned again, a hint of cruelty in the shape of his smile. "But you already know who I am," he said. "Don't you?"

Taking a shallow breath, Mycroft realised that he probably did. "You are the one who made me ... who turned me into ... _this_ ," the words were barely above a whisper, but the big man heard them without the slightest difficulty.

"Of course I did," his smile grew, though the tone of his voice sounded less than entirely happy. "I could not allow one of the greatest strategic commanders in the history of our people to fester into worm-food," he shook his head. "Not when the power was in me to change your certain death into certain life."

"This has not exactly been what I'd describe as a life," Mycroft met Daveth's gaze, the pale moonlight turning the big man's face white and almost featureless. "An existence, perhaps."

"Most definitely a _life_ ," Daveth laughed. "Think of all the enemies you have managed to remove from the earth in the extra time you have had! Think of all the battles you have won and the wrongs you have been able to put right," he moved closer, his voice quieter. "Think of all the women you have bedded and the great monarchs you have served ..."

"Seven queens," Mycroft lifted his head, almost wonderingly. "I have served seven queens, with Boudica the first, and Elizabeth the most recent," he sounded reflective. "The women were always far more sensible than their royal partners," he nodded slowly. "Perhaps it has been more of a life than I had been willing to accept, even though I was given no choice in the matter," he looked again into Daveth's face. "I was given no choice at all, in fact."

"You were all but dead when I watched your servants carry you into the wood," the big man leaned back a little, growling. "Had I left your turning but the length of a courtly song, it would have been too late; your spirit would have been too far gone for even my powers to bring you back."

"How many like me have you made?" Mycroft was suddenly and extraordinarily curious, and now seemed as good a time as any to ask.

"Only the one," Daveth looked serious. "As is the way of our people. And I have been waiting for you this past thousand years and more, to make one of your own."

"Make one of my _own?_ " Mycroft presumed his way to understanding the implication in Daveth's words, but wanted clarity.

"One of your own time-walkers," the big man folded his big arms and grinned. "We all make _one_ ; the one who will eventually replace us when we feel it is the right time to be replaced. We are a slow-living people Mycurrought, but we do not possess an unlimited span. It's time for you to complete your own particular circle."

Mycroft frowned. So much of what he was hearing was vague and unclear. He stared down at the dark grass, fingertips at his forehead. "It was you who placed the stone in the boxes I had brought up from Plymouth," he looked up, nodding. "The mark of _Tridamos_ on the stone and the same mark on the hide you covered me with that very first day that I was like ... this," he laid his hand against his chest. "Are you also my guardian? My keeper?"

"No," the big man seemed to think about the question. "Though we all take it upon ourselves to ensure the circle remains unbroken," he said. "And since you have shown no real sign of finding the one who you will make as your own, then it is upon me to see that you do."

"You have been watching me, waiting, in fact, until I ... _create_ a replacement creature, much like myself?" he looked up for confirmation in the man's face.

"That is precisely what I mean, my friend," Daveth nodded amiably. "It is past time for you to have done so, in fact," he added. "I thought it was because you were looking for exactly the _right_ individual," he said. "Many of us have done so; waited until we know we have discovered someone who is as special to us as we were to them, for whatever reason that might be," he smiled lazily. "You have no idea how many of your heroes were actually very much like you are today."

Mycroft blinked. His _heroes_? Daveth was telling him that the people – some of the people, at least – whom he revered as great figures in history had actually been like _him_..? "Who?" he whispered, his mind whirling far too fast to make sense of the concept. "Are they still alive?"

"As to who, you need only open one of those great books of history you hoard in such incredible quantities," Daveth met Mycroft's sharp glance with another laugh. "Look for those who have survived against impossible odds, who should have died many times over. And don't be surprised that I know so much about you, about your books," he said. "I have had a great deal of time to find out everything I ever needed to know about your life and, in some ways, I consider myself if not a father, then at least a brother."

"But the people in the history books are dead," Mycroft was frowning again. "They died in battle or at sea or in fire and bloodshed," he said. "Such individuals were immensely central to events of their time; it would not be possible for such as they to suddenly vanish or die under unexplained circumstances. Nor is it possible for them to be alive."

"And you would be right in most of those situations, Mycurrought," Daveth shifted his weight. "Even those of us who have walked across the expanse of five thousand years may perish in flame or by any destruction of the human body too great to be amended," he said. "We may be immortal, but we are not gods," the lazy smile returned. "Yet a number of your heroes lived on for a great deal longer than you think; one or two are still alive today."

"Then why is it important for me to create my replacement?" Mycroft stumbled back to the earlier point. "If such as we can avoid death, real death, for many thousands of years, then why is there a need for me to rush into the making of my replacement? And even if there were some great need to have another created, then why can't you do it? You've done it once for yourself, why not choose another and _you_ make one instead of I?"

"Because it is the way of things," for the first time, Daveth sounded a fraction impatient, as if he was tired of having to explain himself. "As it was make clear to me, so am I making it clear to you. We would have had this conversation a great many years ago, but every time I thought I had you cornered, you would suddenly vanish overseas for decades on end, with nobody knowing where you had gone or for how long, or even if you were planning to return. Even when I knew you had returned to make your place here again, it sometimes took me years to track you down, by which time you had changed your name and appearance and moved through a dozen different addresses. On one occasion I recall tracking you, only to see the stern of the ship as you were departing Southampton for the New World," Daveth sighed wearily. "I never even knew if you would return," he added softly.

"I have always returned," Mycroft took a deep breath. "Britain is my home and I will end my days here," he paused, a cryptic smile on his lips. "As I have done once already."

"But not before you make your own apprentice," Daveth frowned and shook his head. "It is the way of things, you need to do this, and do it soon," he said.

"Why?" Mycroft met the man's gaze. "Why is there a rush?"

Shoving his hands back into the deep pockets of his coat, the big bearded man pursed his mouth as if wondering how much information he could safely provide.

"Because I am growing fatigued," he replied, slowly, reluctantly. "I was walking this land for more than a thousand years before I found you in the last moments of your human life and turned your existence to mine," he said. "Because I have seen more things than you could ever imagine; great wonders and great sadnesses," he added. "I find myself growing ever more displeased with this new world around us and realise I am spending more time in my lonely castle and less and less time roaming the free land that has been mine to walk since the time of Julius Caesar," he paused again, his eyes looking inwards. "I do not think I will want to continue being lonely forever and may seek the Long Sleep before too long. I cannot do so before you have made your own replacement."

"The Long Sleep?" Mycroft was fascinated. He had learned more about his entire existence in the last ten minutes than he had in the last ten centuries.

"For those of us who do not perish in the flame or by the sword or in the depths of the earth, the final sleep is often embraced by those too weary to continue," Daveth looked sage. "We seek out a remote and unknown place where we will remain undisturbed and allow the blood to run free until we are drained and dry. Only then will our bodies slowly return into the dust from whence we all came," he shrugged. "I am not quite ready for that," he said, "but I can feel the call of the Long Sleep becoming stronger with every change in this world that takes us from our traditions and from our honour."

"And was it you who damaged the transfusion equipment at the clinics?" Mycroft already knew it had to be Daveth, or some agent working on his behalf.

"Of course," the big man shrugged again. "To create your apprentice, you must drink him dry and then return him to life with a cup of your own blood," he said. "It means that, for once, you will not be able to avoid getting your pretty white fingers red," Daveth grinned, a little nastily. "It means you will finally have to take a life, as is also our way."

"But why try and stop me from transfusing?" Mycroft wondered. "There are other places I can use, other services that will suit me just as well."

"I am here to ensure you choose and make a replacement, Mycurrought," Daveth drew himself up to his full great height. "You have had many years to make this choice, but you have refused your birthright and have shirked from taking the blood in the normal way that might have guaranteed any number of this most normal of transformations," he paused. "I will not leave you now until I have seen you create a new time-walker with mine _own_ eyes, Mycurrought, and I will also make sure that you stay hungry and in need of sustenance until you agree to do so."

"You intend to stalk me and starve me until I comply with your demand to kill someone?" Mycroft's voice was very quiet, his entire body still and unbending.

"That is the way of things," Daveth nodded. "And you already have two candidates in your household at this very moment," the bearded man sounded almost pleased. "The woman may be older than some, but her life-experience would stand her in good stead in a new world of endless horizons; she is strong of mind and would make a good walker. And then," Daveth paused, smiling unpleasantly. "There is the boy."

" _He is little more than an infant_ ," Mycroft growled in disgust as a great wave of repulsion rose up through him at the very thought of killing Sherlock in order to ... to ... _No_. _Never_. Such a wave of anger roiled through him that despite all reason and sense, he was almost persuaded to launch an attack there and then, reckless or not, and he forced his clenching fingers into a coat-pocket. Compressing his hand into a fist, he felt something smooth and rounded clasped tightly within his furious grip; Kit's piece of star-iron; hard and unyielding, and yet somehow warm and representing everything that made the woman an indomitable force. He could not leave her or the boy alone through any ill-considered foolishness tonight. He made himself relax and step backwards as if to physically remove himself from the presence of such a foul notion. "The child will not be touched."

Shrugging again, Daveth looked philosophical. "Children grow quickly into men," he said, airily. "It will not be more than a handful of years before the boy will be in the prime of his physical life, a perfect moment, in fact, to turn him from the inevitable decay and loss that is earthly human life, into the perfect and unearthly life that is _ours_ ," he paused. "Think on it, Mycurrought," the big man grew enthusiastic. "A new companion to walk with you through the rest of your years if you so desire," he said. "Never having to explain yourself, never having to fear discovery, or the need for constant disguise ... you could do far worse."

A tiny fragment of Mycroft's mind marvelled at the principle even as the rest of him recoiled utterly. He would never willingly or knowingly harm the boy, let alone kill him. Nor would Kitta Penderic ever have cause to rue the day she cast her lot in with him. He could not betray everything he felt was important and of worth in his life, such as it was. He realised he had to make one of only two realistic choices. Either he would somehow be forced into compliance with Daveth's horrific scheme, if not through duress of his own person, then it would be only the work of a moment for Sherlock or Kit to be threatened in his stead, or even Jude or other members of his team.

The other alternative was to ensure that Daveth was entirely and permanently removed from the scene. Mycroft was no stranger to death or killing, whether it was the mass slaughter of enemies on the battlefield, or the soft, sighing death beneath an assassin's blade. But he had never deliberately taken the life of an innocent and would not begin now in order to save his own neck. If it came down to a physical contest between he and Daveth, Mycroft knew a few things about killing that he was fairly sure the ancient vampire, for all his presence and bluster, had never dreamed of. If Daveth insisted that Mycroft kill another in order to complete his destiny, then the man had just signed his own death-warrant. Of the two options, Mycroft knew immediately which one he would take.

But now was not the moment or the place to issue any form of challenge. Time was needed in order to prepare the ground, to make absolutely sure that Daveth, once dealt with, would not be able to return to cause further disruption. _Perish in the flame or by the sword or in the depths of the earth_ , had been his exact words, and Mycroft was already constructing several alternatives along those very lines.

"I need time to consider what you have told me," he said, finally. "I have never heard any of these arguments before and it is important that I decide the best way forward," he paused. "If I did choose to wait until the boy reached his maturity before I ... turned him, would that be agreeable to you?"

"It would," Daveth nodded, amiable now that his message seemed to have been accepted, albeit reluctantly at first. "Though I meant what I said: I will stay close by in the area until I have seen you complete the change with my own eyes, whether this is done in five years or fifteen, I shall be little further from you than your own shadow," the bearded man grinned, "Mycurrought of Isca," he murmured. "And don't imagine that I am easy to fool," he grinned, the nastiness of his earlier approach returning. "For I have walked time for far longer than thee and have seen all the evil than men can practice upon this earth," he added, quietly. "There is no way for you to avoid this decision now; choose your apprentice and make him well, and I shall fade from your life as surely as I am fading from my own," he too stepped back, his task for the night completed. "I will be ever watchful, but farewell for now," he murmured, before turning on his heel and striding off towards the far end of the park, where the heavy growth of the trees let through little moonlight to illuminate his trail. For all Mycroft knew, Daveth might just as easily have doubled back, even now walking back towards the Pall Mall house.

With that thought in mind, Mycroft made a swift return, following the same path he had taken to reach the garden. Arriving at the front steps of his house, he checked his Hunter and was surprised that little more than an hour had passed. It had felt much longer. Turning his head, he looked across the road at the inconspicuous CCTV camera on the nearest street light he had the security people install the day after they'd checked out and upgraded all his household security precautions. There would be a significant amount of recorded feed for him to peruse in the morning; he needed a clean shot of Daveth, preferably a good clear one of his head and shoulders in order that he could begin setting up a passive security watch. The old vampire had mentioned his was tired of living in his lonely _castle_ ... interesting. It shouldn't be too hard to list all the surviving castles in the British Isles and run a check on the current and previous ownership. Of all people, Mycroft knew every trick in the book when it came to disguising records of property-ownership. He would also increase the security on all methods of ingress to his house, even if that meant he replaced all the beautiful oak doors with those made of steel and had heavy bars placed at every window. Whatever it took, he would not have his family live under threat.

His _family_. Mycroft smiled thinly as he re-entered through the front entrance, carefully locking and bolting the heavy door behind him.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock was heading into the kitchen, a large sheet of white paper in his hands. "I thought you had to go to a meeting?"

"I did indeed," he smiled, laying his long coat over the arm of a hall chair. "But it ended sooner than I thought and enabled me to return to the bosom of my family," he added, nodding at the sheet of paper. "What's this?"

Grabbing his guardian's hand, Sherlock dragged him into the kitchen where Kitta was just pouring a cup of tea. She looked up and smiled. "Back safe, then?" she murmured, setting out a second cup and saucer.

"Indeed," his attention dragged down to the paper in Sherlock's hand, Mycroft found himself staring at a reasonably-drawn schematic of the old schoolroom, but in the drawing, the room was no longer empty and barren. The new plan, for that was what Sherlock had produced, was an intriguing _m_ _é_ _lange_ of minimalist workspace, tree-house and book-lined cubby-hole. Uncertain as to its actual practicality, Mycroft had to acknowledge the child's inventiveness and creativity. Apparently everything he wanted could be compressed into a room no bigger than a moderate-sized bedroom. "No laboratory, I see," he observed. "I confess to being surprised at such an omission."

"It's obvious I can't get one the normal way, by asking," seated at the kitchen table, Sherlock leaned forward, resting his chin on folded arms. "So I am being cunning and waiting for a better situation to arise," he grinned. "But this is what I would like to have as my study, please," he said.

Such was the complexity of the drawing that Mycroft felt in need of a detailed explanation from the architect himself. Many things became clearer, though he saw the creation of a shark-filled moat might give some cause for concern. "With your permission, I shall hand this exceptional design over to my head-builder so that he might organise materials and a construction schedule," he said. "And I assume you'll be on hand you supply him with architectural reflections as the project proceeds?"

Grinning madly, Sherlock jumped down from his chair to hug Mycroft hard around the waist. Whooping with delight, the boy ran down the passage, back into the Library.

As soon as the coast was clear, Kitta dropped down two crystal glasses and a small tray with limes, olives and ice. Setting up the glasses with ice, she poured a generous quantity of Mycroft's prize vodka into each. Taking lime for herself, she dropped a couple of the dark olives into Mycroft's tumbler. "So, what happened, then?" she demanded. "And don't tell me it weren't nothing," she said, giving him a distinct _look_. "I could see it in your face when you were leaving that this weren't no normal kind of business-meeting," she added. "And I can still see things in your face now that tells me I wasn't wrong," Kit sipped her vodka and screwed one eye closed as the alcohol bit.

Mycroft felt a wave of relief that the Cornishwoman was so endlessly pragmatic. It made everything so much more simple. "I have a new enemy," he said, flatly. "A very dangerous man who will stop at nothing until either I comply with his demands or until I find a way to remove him as a problem." Taking the vodka Kit had poured him, he extracted the two olives, emptied the glass in a single gulp, before popping the garnish into his mouth which he chewed reflectively as Kit poured him a refill.

"These demands being unpleasant ones, I'll be bound," Kit made no effort to match Mycroft's intake; she knew very well by now that her human metabolism was no match for his.

Mycroft hesitated before answering. Looking down at the heavy cut glass clenched hard between his fingers, he nodded fractionally. "The man I met this evening was the vampire who made _me_ ," he said, turning to meet Kitta's dark eyes. "I've never knowingly met another vampire in my entire life, let alone the one who might be considered my _maker_ ," he added, thoughtfully. "He is a very dangerous individual ... he wants me to kill someone and make another vampire," Mycroft made his second glass of vodka disappear. "My _apprentice_ , he called it. Apparently it's some sort of tradition and apparently I'm in trouble for not having done it already."

"By making another vampire, this means you'd have to kill someone, doesn't it?" Kit met his gaze without flinching. "But you've killed before in all those wars and battles you've been in, so what's the problem?"

Mycroft didn't quite take in what he was hearing. Kit was advising him to go through with Daveth's demands? Lifting his eyes to meet hers squarely, he frowned. "I have never killed anyone who was not, in some way, trying their level best to kill me first," he said. "The idea of killing an innocent to replicate myself is anathema to me," he added. "How can you even imagine such a thing?"

"From what you told me already, you was made into what you are when you had pretty much already died," Kit sounded entirely pragmatic, she folded her hands together on the kitchen table. "So why can't you do the same thing? Go to a hospital or somewhere and find someone who's at death's door and ... do what you need to do."

Sitting back in the old wooden chair, Mycroft stared at her without reservation. No matter how ghastly the notion, he supposed that if he had to do something of the sort, then Kit's suggestion might not be the worst way of getting the deed done.

"I will not accede to coercion," he shook his head, pouring himself another stiff measure of the fiery spirit. "Once you give into another's unreasonable demands, it is rarely long before another demand arrives, even more unacceptable than the first," he shook his head again, more slowly. "I will not put myself in that situation, nor leave anyone in my family open to the dangers that would be associated with such a perilous course of action, no," he said, finally. "The thing I have to do now is far more difficult than finding a potential victim," he paused, sipping his drink this time rather than bolting it down.

"And what's that, then?" Kit leaned forward, intrigued almost against her will.

Mycroft compressed his lips. "Something at which I have absolutely no experience whatsoever, and which I fear might even result in my own demise," he said. "I have to kill a vampire."


	20. in which the unexpected happens.

 

True to his word, it was only late morning of the following day when, after hearing the bell ring, Kit opened the big front door to see a very substantial man standing on the steps. Behind him was an equally substantial van bearing the name of a local carpenter and joiners firm that seemed vaguely familiar; she narrowed her eyes in thought. "You were here before," she remembered. "When you brought over that big table for the games room upstairs."

"Indeed we wuz, Missus," the big man grinned. "And seems we made a good impression, since the Boss got a phone call at home early this morning and had this faxed into the office at the crack of dawn," he said, holding up a smaller version of Sherlock's masterpiece of architectural design covered all over in tiny pencilled calculations and measurements. "The instructions that came with it said if we could get the thing costed and installation started today, there'd be a big bonus," he grinned hard. "Big bonus it was, right enough," he added. "Which is why I'm standing talking to you this minute, with a van full of finished timber, a case of power tools and an apprentice called Steve," he turned as a younger man walked around the back of the van into view. "Say 'Hello' to the lady, Steve."

" _Hello_ ," Steve did as he was bade, waved, then opened up the van's rear doors and began to unload boxes and cases and all manner of carpentry tools and equipment.

Shaking her head at Mycroft's habit of arranging things at the speed of light, Kit smiled and walked the men up the stairs to the old school room. "This is the place you'll be wanting, no doubt," she nodded. "And since you've been here before, then I won't worry about telling you where everything is. Fancy a cup of tea?"

Having made a pair of friends for life by the offer of the staple British beverage, Kit walked a detour past the open Library doors on her way towards the kitchen. Sticking her head inside, though she couldn't see Sherlock, she knew he had to be in here somewhere; the boy hardly left the place these days. She'd taken pity on Mycroft and handed the child her entire collection of medical texts, some of them woefully out of date now, but they still held the basics. She'd found the appropriate entry in one of them and added a paper bookmark on which she'd written 'Paroxysm of Ecstasy' in her neat script, adding a brief note: _ask Mycroft for specific details_.

"The builders are here to make your new study for you, if you're interested," she called out, not waiting for an answer before she turned back towards the kitchen. Even at a slight distance, Kitta could hear the faint whoop of excitement and she smiled. The boy had come along in great leaps and bound these last few days; it was a like watching a small flower cautiously unfolding its tightly spiralled petals, letting a hint of joyous colour peep through. If it hadn't been for the new weight on Mycroft's shoulders, Kit would have imagined everything was perfect.

Except it wasn't perfect at all.

The way Mycroft had said he had a _new_ enemy, which made it all the more likely he already had _old_ enemies as well. That didn't sit well with Kit for a variety of reasons, not the least being she didn't think anyone who knew the man could be his enemy. But then, she realised as she poured boiling water into the teapot, she really didn't know Mycroft all that well now, did she? She only knew what he had chosen to let her know which, considering, was a fair bit, but by no means all. Yet she also realised that her ability to accept him for what he was … whatever he was, was also partly the reason he felt able to discuss these things with her. Kitta knew that Mycroft Holmes was an incredibly clever and knowledgeable man, far cleverer than herself, but was just as able to recognise that she had something which he valued enough to keep her around at a scandalously high salary. He wanted her ear and her honesty; if there were anyone in the world Mycroft needed right this minute, it was someone like her, able to listen and evaluate without having any prior bias or long-standing vested interests. She would never give him less than the truth because it was the most perfect thing she had to give; no matter what it was she might say. And in turn, Mycroft was just as honest with her.

Which put this latest development a bit on the worrisome side. If Mycroft thought this new man … this new _vampire_ … was the most dangerous person he'd ever met, then he wasn't simply saying that for effect; he really meant it. Which also meant that he, at least, was in danger. Possibly all three of them were, but that was probably a conversation best left unsaid for the moment. Kitta remembered the old stories about the ancients, the Druids, about how silver and salt and fire were feared. Her fingers lifted absently to touch the heavy silver chain clasped around her neck. She'd get a Saint Christopher medallion for Sherlock one of these days; with all the money Mycroft was paying her, she could get the lad a very nice one. It couldn't hurt. Superstitious it might well be, but they were all in the land of superstition now, weren't they?

Bringing the tea tray up in the lift to the second floor, Kit smiled as she heard the very serious tones of Sherlock explaining yet again his plans for the room. Hopefully, some of the worst excesses had been toned down, but who knew; the boy was a cunning persuader and Mycroft was being just as daft about this as was the boy; the pair of them were good for one another. "Tea," she announced, walking into the room that already held the fragrance of new wood as young Steve was piling yet another load of smooth-planed oak up against the wall. "And will the pair of you be wanting lunch? I can cook for four as easy as two," she said, and while I 'spect you might have sandwiches in the van, I think a hard day's work would go more easy with a proper meal inside you," she added. "And I'm a nurse, you see, so I knows what I'm talking about."

Though he said nothing, Kit didn't miss the interested look on the apprentice's face. Young men of that age were walking stomachs; best thing to give him a proper meal, in that case. "Lunch will be at twelve-thirty down in the kitchen," she said, walking away. "Sherlock, I expect you to be on your best behaviour in the meantime."

"She a bit of a dragon, eh?" the big carpenter grinned down at the child beside him as he helped himself to a heaped spoonful of sugar in his tea.

"Not in the least," Sherlock shook his head. "Though Miss Penderic has a mild fetish about getting me to eat and an unhealthy relationship with cleanliness, she's quite a nice lady, actually, even though she won't let me have a laboratory in my bedroom or the laundry."

"So this room's going to be your top-secret den, is it?" Steve the apprentice looked around. "Nice room," he said. "Nice house. Probably full of secret passages, I bet."

"Yes, it is a nice house," Sherlock nodded, looking around him as if for the first time. "It is a very nice … house. Turning to gaze back down at his drawn plan, then around the room, he nodded, a very strange expression on his face. "There's something I have to go and do," he said. "But I'll be back shortly in case you have any questions, if that's all right?"

"No questions from us yet, lad," the older man unrolled a long steel tape-measure. "Not for the basic stuff, at least. Off you toddle."

Deciding against engaging in a discussion of why he might want to _toddle_ , a thing he hadn't one for a great number of years, instead of run, a feat he had been able to accomplish for some time now, Sherlock left the room and ran straight down the winding staircase, not bothering to wait for the lift. Something that had been in his head for a while, even though he'd not consciously been thinking about it, made him run directly into the Library but instead of returning to his books, he stopped and looked around the room. Really _looked_. He walked slowly around the perimeter of the huge space, staring closely. He needed a frame of reference for what he was going to be looking at, so he needed to absorb all the _other_ details in the room so he had something against which to compare the … other details. He stared at the shelves, at the corners, at the floorboards, the pattern of wear on the wooden floor, on the faint layer of dust as yet uncleaned. Even the faintest sign of a cobweb in one particularly deep crevice. It was important that he do so, because he didn't want to jump to a false conclusions.

He remembered that Mycroft had come into the Library the other night while he was dozing in one of the big chairs; the breeze of his passing causing Sherlock to waken enough to watch as the tall man walked over to the wall and then, he simply seemed to have … _vanished_. It hadn't even registered before, but the carpenter's comment about secret passages had clearly triggered some half-recalled memory, and Sherlock knew he had to work out what it was or he'd probably never sleep ever again in his entire life.

By now, he'd completed a three-quarter circuit of the entire room and was level with the enormous portrait of two men, one of whom was sitting in a large and ornate chair while the other stood, leaning casually on the chair's back. It was here, in his sleep-befuddled state of several nights ago, that he'd last seen his guardian standing. Then the man seemed to have disappeared. Had it really happened, or had it really been nothing more than a dream?

Mycroft had already told him about his ancestors who had mostly been military men, or so it seemed by all the portraits he kept of them stashed in different places around the house. But none of them were as large as this one … or as detailed. Stepping as close as he could without losing sight of the details, Sherlock stared and stared, taking in a raft of minutia he'd not really been aware of before.

Like how the painting of Mycroft's Great Uncle showed the man to be uncannily like Mycroft himself, even down to the silver watch hanging at his coat-front, the watch Mycroft had eventually allowed him to take apart and clean on the _absolute_ assurance it would be put back together before the evening was out. There had been designs on that watch which, Sherlock saw, were replicated in the painting. There was no doubt it was the same watch. He looked even closer at the faces of the two men. The one in the chair looked vaguely like his grandfather, but the one standing _beside_ the chair … looked awfully like Mycroft. Even the curl of his forelock, the line of his mouth, even the moles on his face … even the … Sherlock felt his heartbeat go slow as his breath stopped. Something about faces was inside his head trying to get out, but it wouldn't come. Biting his lip in frustration, the boy closed his eyes tight where he stood and tried to picture the big room inside his head that, like Marcus Aurelius, he had made to keep all his thoughts in place … big, like the Library, but even bigger. Like a house, even; like a castle. _Like a palace_.

And on one small shelf, in a tiny cupboard, in a corner of one part of a small room in that big palace he was already designing in his head, Sherlock remembered the things from Kit's medical books. He hadn't gone all through them yet, of course, but a couple were so interesting, he'd already read them twice and had stored the information very safely, just as he planned to do with all the rest of his new books. He was going to try and store all of Mycroft's books as well, but that would take a very long time. Right now, he wanted something very recent, so recent, it was right at the top of his memories. The stuff Kit had talked about; about using patient observation to assist diagnosis; looking at the colour of their skin, was it yellowish with jaundice? Flushed red with high blood-pressure? Pale and waxy thyroid? Dark and mottled with rash … he remembered the section on eyes, but that wasn't what he wanted either. Kit had told him to watch people's faces as that often said a lot about the people themselves. Flicking through the pages of the book in his mind, he rushed past Haematology ... _Neurology_ ... _Pathology_... Impatiently, he waved the eye-chapter aside, flicking backwards and forwards through the pages of the book in his mind, chapter by chapter until he came to … _Moles, Freckles and Nevus_. Ah. _At last_. Pausing, he rescanned each page in his thoughts, looking for the section on hereditary growths … he nodded to himself. _Got it_. In a few seconds, he re-read the information he'd stored, his breathing slowing all over again as the information told him, very clearly, what he had half-remembered before.

He opened his eyes and looked back up at the painting.

At a painting that was easily over a hundred years old.

At the painting of Mycroft.

Breath gusted out from his lungs as he realised all the things he'd been seeing without observing; all the small evidences and hints that, taken alone, were nothing extraordinary, but taken all together … that Mycroft couldn't eat; that he never seemed to sleep; that alcohol never affected him … lifting all those heavy books in Waterstones … why he had nothing in his kitchen …why there were so many different era paintings of him in the house … why he lived alone and in a house that nobody else had been in the attics for dozens and dozens of years …

Looking closer at the brass label beneath the painting, the words 'Granville Holmes and Friend' were as clear as day, though … and this was odd … the part of the brass with the word ' _Friend'_ was shinier than the rest. As if it had been recently polished. Without conscious thought, Sherlock lifted his fingers to the bright section of metal and rubbed it hard enough to make it glow.

There was a soft click.

###

He had been enmired in CCTV feed from around the locale of his house and St James's Park for the greater part of the day and even Mycroft's eyes were beginning to weary of the effort to focus on every tiny detail. The cameras watching the previous night had spotted first himself, and then Daveth very clearly as they strolled individually down St James's Square Road towards the park, then cut out until there were several simultaneous camera-feed of the both of them standing on the moonlight-striped grass in the garden's centre. Fortunately, there was no audio available at this point in time, though Mycroft knew it would come, at some point in the future. He made a mental note to be more aware of the words he used and the things he said in the future. No point maintaining bad habits.

Seated at his desk in his habitually dimmed-down office and flicking between camera-feeds, Mycroft found himself swearing methodically beneath his breath as Daveth headed into the shadows and it seemed that every camera lost him at precisely the same moment.

There was a quiet knock on his office door. "Come," he kept his eyes glued to the multiple television screens on the wall in front of him, each running a different feed. He found that he could just as easily absorb multiple data as a single stream.

It was Jude Roberts and he looked uncomfortable; among the various papers in his hand flashed the pale yellow of a confidential internal memo. "For you, sir," he held the paper out. "Do you want to send a response?"

The scrap of paper conveyed a very brief message, entirely too brief for the seriousness of its contents. Martin Olam's body has just been pulled from the Thames. Other than those injuries sustained while in the water, there were no marks on him at all. He hadn't been _put_ into the water then; the man had jumped. Apparently Olam had not been exaggerating when he'd claimed the woman he'd known as Karen Redhill was his life. He had been entirely serious about it, in fact. Deadly so.

Leaning forward to place an elbow on his desk, Mycroft closed his eyes and rested the side of his head against two extended fingers. This was not going to be a good day.

"No response," he said. "Has Olam's family been notified?"

"Uniformed police _enroute_ , sir," Jude nodded. "Both MI5 and MI6 are a bit keen about this one," he added. "Seeing how they were equally involved with the initial operation."

"Have we heard anything about Irina Bortzov since she returned to Moscow?" Mycroft leaned back in his chair. He rather hoped the woman had managed to avoid any negative repercussions; she had, after all, done nothing more than obeyed instructions.

"Nothing yet from our people since they advised us Miss Bortzov was taken by car to her father's country estate," Roberts frowned, though we do have this, if it's of any interest," he added, handing Mycroft a second piece of paper, a brief medical report.

It was a summary of the ultrasound scan the woman had undertaken the week before she was deported. The child was a girl.

"Then let us hope both mother and infant survive all this without further interference," Mycroft looked momentarily sombre. He always felt something at a loss when the delicate mortality of people reminded him of his own personal lack of understanding in this area. He had been existing on a different time-scale for so many centuries, that unexpected death always came at him with a little shock. He inhaled heavily, turning his thoughts to the more pressing problem. "Any progress with the list of ancient buildings?"

Following Daveth's slip that he usually dwelt in an isolated _castle_ somewhere in the British Isles, Mycroft had instituted a thorough survey of all recorded ownership for any building that wasn't actually a ruined shell. The man would not have stayed in London waiting for Mycroft to make up his mind, and no vampire dressed as richly or appeared as elegantly groomed as Daveth would be living in a hole in the ground. Given that there were still approximately eight-hundred extant castles in Britain though, his bolt-hole would not be easy to track down

"We've already gone through most of the _Castellarium Anglicanum_ , sir," Jude nodded, thankful they were back on firmer ground. Mr Holmes didn't so much as flinch when issuing necessary termination orders, as a rule, but whenever a hapless bystander became collateral damage, the man brooded; Jude had seen it with his own eyes, just as he was seeing it now. "And we've managed to exclude a great number of structures based on the fact that families are and have been in residence for the last five years," Roberts paused. "You did say that we could ignore any structures that had been turned over to the National Trust, as well as any country houses with the word _castle_ in their names."

"And how many does that leave us yet to investigate?" Mycroft knew the last few would take a great deal of work to eliminate from the search as the possible candidates were narrowed down.

"We're down to about thirty or so now, sir," Jude handed him a third piece of paper. "Any of those ring a bell for you?"

Swiftly scanning the brief list, Mycroft frowned. "It would be old; something very early," he said, thinking. "Nothing modern. Something ancient and solid, with its roots in the bedrock," he murmured. "Something no tourist would want to visit," he added. "Somewhere that would be dark and difficult to reach for most of the year, perhaps."

"Always dark?" Jude hesitated, eyebrows rising. "There actually was one place, but we were about to discount it since nobody in their right minds would want to live there, we thought," he said. "It's got no windows, you see … one moment; I have the particulars on my desk."

 _A castle with no windows?_ It might fit the bill.

Jude returned in seconds with a facsimiled photograph of a solid-looking, round building, like a squat, flat-roofed, windowless lighthouse. Made from cleverly interlinked blocks of solid granite, it appeared incredibly ancient. Not more than fifty-feet high, it seemed to have grown out of the very rock beneath it. "On the Cornish coast outside of St Agnes, sir," Jude read from the notes in his hand. "Apparently deserted. The nearest description we have for it is an Iron-age _broch_ ," he said, handing the picture over. "Though that's a Scottish term. I don't know what we'd call such a thing on the Cornish coast."

As soon as he saw the photograph, Mycroft knew it was Daveth's bolt hole. A more perfect place would not be found. "Roundhouse, perhaps?" he felt a sense of anticipation tingle in his fingertips. _St Agnes?_ Right on the main road to London, five hours on the M5 by car. Less than an hour by helicopter. It must be the place. "Why is it deserted?"

"The entire coastline is Heritage owned and maintained, sir," Jude folded his hands in front of him. "Plus coastal erosion in that area has been particularly fierce, so the whole area is fenced off from the public, with all manner of warning signs posted at every point of possible ingress. Not sure I'd quite call it a castle, although each to his own, I suppose."

Light dawned and Mycroft couldn't help the faint smile that rounded the hard line of his mouth. _An Englishman's home is his castle_. Never had such a truism been more applicable. He was seriously beginning to accept they'd found Daveth's lair; everything seemed to fit. Cornwall, the remote and isolated location, the ancient nature of the building itself and the fact that inside those thick granite walls, it would be dark on a permanent basis. The perfect retreat for a vampire, in fact.

"There's also been several sightings of your man on various CCTV cameras at main rail terminals," Jude acknowledged. "I hadn't considered looking beyond London, but if Cornwall is a definite possibility, then you need to see these," he said, laying a manila folder on the desk in front of Mycroft.

There were a number of grainy photographs, clearly taken at different locales, though each one appeared to be a railway platform. Each picture was centered around a tall bearded man in a long dark coat.

"Where were these taken?" Mycroft felt he already knew the answer.

"Paddington Station,' Jude pointed to the nearest. "Truro ... Perranporth," he indicated others. We hadn't thought it could be the same chap, but if Cornwall is a definite possibility ..?"

 _It was a definite possibility now_.

"I want the roundhouse investigated immediately, but with extreme caution," Mycroft said. "I have reason to believe it may be the haunt of this seriously dangerous individual who will not hesitate to kill anyone he finds in the vicinity. Everyone in the detail should be equipped with an M12 in addition to the usual armament."

"Flamethrowers, sir?" Though Roberts did not question his directive, Mycroft could tell the man was intensely curious.

"They may be the only things that will hold him if he attacks," Mycroft looked utterly serious. "I want no risks taken." Fire might be the only probable way to stop Daveth from rampaging his way through the entire unit if they were discovered, something Mycroft did not want on his conscience.

"Any other specialist gear to be issued, sir?" Jude queried.

"Unnecessary, as long as everyone keeps their distance; just ensure that everyone knows the man is a vicious killer who can take them apart with his bare hands if he so desired." Mycroft shook his head. "Everyone is to be on the highest alert for the man I met last night. "While he's watching me, we have the opportunity to corner him, but if he goes to ground, I want him to have no safe sanctuary. If needs be, we'll demolish the cliff beneath the building and bring the whole damn thing down."

"With the man inside?" Jude's voice was soft.

"I can think of no better tomb for such as he," Mycroft linked his fingers beneath his chin. "A million tons of Cornish clifftop should do the job rather effectively, I'd say."

"I'll make the appropriate preparations, sir," Jude turned, pausing. "And I've taken the liberty of increasing the surveillance around you in the interim," he said. "As well as your ward and my aunt."

Mycroft paused a little at that. He'd almost forgotten that Kit and Jude were related; Kit Penderic had become so much to both he and Sherlock in such a short time. "Good," he nodded slowly. "I will risk neither of them," he agreed, quietly. "I'll have no risk near the house or either of them, so keep your eyes skinned," he said, his tone brooking no discussion.

"And once we have the man?" Jude already had a good idea of what would be the next step, but he liked to have these things laid out to ensure no possibility of error.

"Immediate incarceration in maximum security facility and then I shall deal with him personally," Mycroft's voice was coldly lethal. "He is too dangerous to leave alone, his long-term obsession with me would merit permanent incarceration, but I fear he is too dangerous even for that," he exhaled slowly. "He is a menace to anyone around him and I would have done with this sooner rather than later." He picked up the nearer of his two desk phones, called an external number and delivered a brief directive. "I'll be there within the hour," he replaced the phone.

"Sir," Jude Roberts had rarely heard such a bitter tone in Mycroft's voice before but then this was clearly a situation unlike any other they been through. "I'll ensure the operation is instigated as soon as we know this man is actually going to be inside."

"Don't wait; instigate it immediately," Mycroft looked certain. "I can assure you he will be inside the building," Mycroft stood slowly, walking around his desk. "All the situation needs is the appropriate bait."

"Bait, sir?" Jude Roberts felt a distinctly uneasy sensation slide into his stomach.

"Mmm," Mycroft slid into his overcoat. "Call my car, would you?"

###

Sitting on the modular arrangement in the centre of the underground room, Sherlock felt his thoughts alternate between a mad spin and icy, still clarity. He had not actually been certain of his deductions and his reasoning, only his observations. And now, not only had he been proven entirely correct, but he was privy to a secret that even a nine-year-old could work out might be incredibly dangerous to possess. He knew he shouldn't be down here, down in this very private place among the secrets of centuries and of serious possibilities. Turning his head again, he stared once more at the long racks of clothing, the endless shelves of boots and hats; cockaded tricornes and stiff Tudor bonnets. There were the great glass-fronted cabinets, each piled with slowly disintegrating papers, held in _situ_ by casually placed brass lamps or aging electronic prototypes which in themselves, were enough to make his head whirl.

He should leave. Leave _now_ before he was discovered, before Mycroft came home and found him sitting in the middle of the place that he had succeeded in hiding for ... judging by the vast assortment of antiquities around the place ... more than three hundred years. And it had to be all his; nobody would collect all this stuff and hide it away in such a private and secret place unless it was something he didn't want known. There were no other signs that anyone else, apart from Mycroft, and now himself, of course, had even been down here before.

He really should leave, even though the tantalising scent of history was thick down here; the armorials on the walls; the tall containers of silver-handled swords, the open long boxes of ancient rifles just lying on the floor. Sherlock's eyes were attracted once more to the long shelves literally covered in arcane and unknown pieces of electrical debris; fragments of old scientific paraphernalia that made the stuff in the attic look brand new by comparison. The long drape of fusty and ragged old battle flags resting in serried rows along the walls, above the lure of stacked and closed boxes that he knew without any doubt, must be chock-full of endless mysteries. His fingers itched. But he had to leave. It wasn't right for him to stay in a place like this; Sherlock knew that this was what real trespassing felt like; the paralysis of guilt at war with the thrill of transgression and unfettered exploration.

Turning his head a little more, the boy was able to see a massive glass-fronted display case fixed to the wall behind him. Containing an incredibly old leather hide, Sherlock was lost in awe as he contemplated the age and implications of the thing.

He had to leave. He turned his head to look further into the darkness...

It was very quiet in the secret room beneath the Library, the whole place muffled and sound-proofed by the very best methods that money could buy. So well insulated from the rest of the world was it that Sherlock never heard the sound of the front door opening and closing as Mycroft returned early from his Whitehall office. Nor did he hear his name being called or, a few minutes later, the door of the Library opening wider.

Nor did he hear the quiet footsteps that paused on the golden parquet floor outside the secret door behind the great portrait. Not even those same footsteps as they descended into the dim basement room, following the same path his own feet had taken.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Mycroft saw the boy sitting statue-still on the edge of one of the moveable seating blocks. "How long have you been down here?"

Slowing turning his head to face his guardian, Sherlock blinked, fear and worry flying away in the concerned tone of the man's voice.

"How long have you been a vampire, Mycroft?"


	21. in which things come to a head.

 

The expression on the child's face was so serious and yet so utterly unafraid that Mycroft wasn't sure whether to laugh or groan because there was probably going to be no way out of this situation that would avoid the truth. Not only was Sherlock already far too perceptive to miss a lie, but Mycroft had no wish to lie to, of all people, the boy staring up at him with such shining blue eyes.

"You've already paused far too long to tell me I'm mistaken, you know," Sherlock hopped onto his feet and walked over to the nearest wooden box with ancient electrical wires sticking out. "What's this, please?"

Sinking down into the boy's place, Mycroft rubbed a hand quickly across his face. "It's a Coherer prototype," he said, watching the child's face as the instrument was duly inspected. "Sherlock, we need to talk about your question, will you please come and sit down?"

Reluctantly returning the primitive radio signal detector back to its box, Sherlock walked back and duly sat down on the adjacent square padded seat, hands resting in his lap.

Mycroft inhaled slowly. "What makes you think I'm a vampire?"

"Are you going to suggest you're not, Mycroft? _Really?_ " mildly chiding, Sherlock folded his arms and tilted his head slightly to one side. "There are a lot of books in your library and there's a lot of books down here too, though _these_ books," his eyes swept the arcane collection which Mycroft had made certain would never see the light of day, "are a lot more interesting." He shook his head. "And I'm not stupid, you know."

Sherlock wasn't stupid; Mycroft did indeed know this. But was the boy ready to deal with the truth? "Hypothetically," he began, slowly. "Imagine for a moment that you were correct, and that I am, in fact, a vampire," he said. "How would you feel about the situation?"

Pursing his mouth, the boy nodded thoughtfully. "Are you going to bite me and drink all my blood?"

"Of course I'm not going to bite you or do anything of the sort," Mycroft looked aghast. "Whatever makes you ask such a dreadful question?"

Sherlock shrugged, matter-of-factly. "It's what vampires do, isn't it?" he shrugged again. "Are you going to bite Kit and drink all her blood, then?"

Pressing a hand flat across his eyes, Mycroft groaned softly in his chest. Keeping his eyes closed, he exhaled loudly. "No," he said. "I have absolutely no intention of upsetting Miss Penderic in the smallest part," he said, meeting the child's gaze. "The lady looks after both of us far too well for me to wish her even the slightest inconvenience," he added. "I have no idea what outrageous gothic horrors you've been reading, but I can assure you that drinking anyone's blood would not be an event remotely on my horizon."

"Does Kit know you're a vampire?" Sherlock lifted both eyebrows. Kit seemed to know everything that was going on.

"Are you absolutely convinced that I am, Sherlock?" Mycroft spoke softly now, still hesitant to say what he realised was virtually unavoidable at this point.

Looking up into the dark and very serious eyes of his guardian, Sherlock grinned suddenly. "Being a vampire would make a lot more sense than anything else," he said. "It seems the only logical explanation that explains all the data," he added. "Unless you're an alien from another planet?"

Finding his mouth was curving of its own accord, Mycroft allowed the smile room to grow. "I am definitely not an alien from another planet. I was born in Cornwall, not all that far from Kit's own birthplace."

"Then when did you become a vampire?" the boy kept his eyes on Mycroft's face; there was to be no getting out of this one.

"You understand, Sherlock, that this is information nobody outside the three of us can ever know? Not a single other person can share this secret or it will make things extraordinarily difficult for all of us and myself, especially," Mycroft exhaled slowly.

"I doubt anyone would believe me, in any case," the child sounded far older than his years. "I didn't really believe it myself, but there were so many little things that pointed in only this direction," he paused, wondering. "Are you cross because I found out?"

"I'm sure there will be any number of things that I may be cross about in the future, but this particular instance isn't one of them, my boy," Mycroft gave a genuine smile. "And yes," he nodded. "In answer to your question, I am, in fact, a vampire, though nothing like any of the stories you might have read, and certainly not like any of those horrific Hollywood extravaganzas," he pushed Sherlock's hair carefully away from the boy's eyes. "I'm rather boring, really."

"But you haven't said anything about when you became a vampire," Sherlock frowned, determined now to have the whole of it, chapter and verse. "And what's that, and why is it in such a big glass case?" he demanded, turning and pointing to the great display on the wall behind them.

Turning his own head to gaze once again at the ancient cow hide, its beginning so distant in time even though it spoke of problems that were very much in the here and now. "That," Mycroft said, "is a very long story; far too long for me to begin now, but I promise to tell you everything you want to know when I come back after I've sorted out a particularly undesirable problem that is tasking me at present. I also would like you to leave this room alone until I return, so that I can show you all the things that are down here in safety; I didn't build this sanctuary with nine-year olds in mind, you see. There are dangerous things down here."

"And are you dangerous, Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice was quiet. "Have you done lots of bad things?"

"Probably, but not the kind of bad things you might imagine," the tall man stood, walking over to a small but heavily-lidded wooden chest. Extracting something long and vaguely shiny, as well as a couple of smaller, less-shiny items, he slipped them into his jacket pocket before turning back and holding out a hand. "Come now; let's leave this place until I have sufficient time to give you a proper tour."

Slipping his fingers into the cool hand of his guardian without the slightest hesitation, Sherlock wondered what kind of a problem might be particularly undesirable to a vampire. "Where are you going?" he asked. "And will you be long?"

"I don't think I'll be too terribly long," Mycroft smiled faintly, intensely relieved at the absence of any sign of mistrust in the child. "I'm going for a ride in a helicopter."

###

Jude Roberts had worked with Mycroft Holmes for a considerable time now, longer, in fact, than most of the others in the department. There was something of a trend for people to move on to greener pastures after a handful of years; usually into higher positions in national government, or specialist teams in national security. He'd known several individuals who'd been tempted away by international and overseas security interests; the US seemed to have no end of an appetite for Holmes-trained surveillance specialists, and that was just the tip of the iceberg. Which made it all the more strange, Jude thought, was that _he_ was still here. Not that he hadn't been approached a few times by external interests, but in each case, just when things had started to get really serious, there had always been a sudden vague change of mind and a brisk withdrawal of said interest. The event had always been accompanied by a sharp salary increase, and, on the last two occasions, a significant expansion in both his personal responsibilities as well as his personal security clearance. Jude was not an unintelligent man; he had worked out some while ago that he was being kept there through a deliberate process of intervention on Mycroft's part, and on occasion, he'd wondered why. Not wondered too hard, mind you; he knew that his role was now fairly central to the entire department and that Mycroft had come to depend on him literally as his right-hand man.

Which made it all the more strange therefore, that Holmes still refused to trust such an obviously trustworthy lieutenant with what seemed to be fairly basic details. Just _why_ was Mycroft so suddenly intrigued by this strange man who appeared to have no recent history, no legal identity and who seemed to be living in a bleak stone dwelling on the edge of nowhere? Even more importantly, _how_ did Mycroft Holmes know all about the big bearded man when there was absolutely no other trace of the guy? No birth certificate or National Insurance number; no record of him on any national census dating as far back as record went? Nothing on the electoral role, no medical or dentist records. Not even a history of a car registration number. The man didn't legally exist.

So how _did_ Mycroft know him? Was the stranger a remnant from some Cold War project of the seventies that had lingered into the eighties? Was the big man a foreign agent of some kind? An off-the-records assassin? And why had Mycroft been so fanatical about the specialist armament of the commando unit already _enroute_ to the roundhouse outside St Agnes? When he'd said to have each man armed with an M12, Jude had nearly swallowed his tongue. Not only were flamethrowers _exceptionally_ dangerous weapons, but they'd been blacklisted by any number of sovereign nations since the end of the fifties. The army had them, of course; just about every Western force had them but, like chlorine gas, nobody wanted to discuss the fact of that particular ownership. The entire scenario was full of gaps and Jude had come to dislike anything so incomplete and potentially disastrous.

And now Mycroft himself was heading down to Cornwall to supervise the operation in person. Jude compressed his jaw until his teeth ached. Mycroft almost never went _anywhere_ there days that required him to be active in the field. It wasn't even as if his presence was going to be of a purely observational nature, no; the man had indicated he intended to set himself right in the middle of the whole damn affair. _Bait_ , he'd said. But how did he know the big man well enough to expect him to go for such bait? And why, with all the other precautions he'd taken to ensure his personal invisibility in all of his labyrinthine operations, did Holmes suddenly pick _this_ situation as the one in which to act like John effing Wayne? It made absolutely no sense at all. None of it did. Jude Roberts was not an unintelligent man and right now his brain was working overtime.

At this time of day, the drive to the heliport at the City Airport was brief; the big Apache helicopter looked mean, powerful and darkly ominous. Though it was not currently loaded with external weaponry, the chopper looked a nasty piece of work; the thing was designed to hunt tanks, for god's sake. Flying a direct line, it would reach St Agnes within the hour. It would be dark by then, of course, but the commandos would be in operational readiness regardless of the light-quality, waiting only for Mycroft to arrive and put himself right in the line of fire. _Bait_.

"Are you really certain this is something that demands your personal supervision, Mr Holmes?" Jude felt he had to try one last time to dissuade his director from taking this radical and unprecedented step.

"I appreciate your discomfort at my decision, Jude," Mycroft slid a pair of fine black leather gloves onto his hands as he spoke. "However, this man is not only a personal danger to me and my family, but also to others in more insidious ways than you could possibly imagine. If he is not stopped now, we'll lose him and he'll go to ground, warned of our intent and even more dangerous when he eventually resurfaces, because that's precisely what he would do. If that happened, nobody associated with me by even the most tenuous of connections would be safe, and frankly, I'd rather take this particular bull by the horns now, regardless of the potential danger, than permit him to return to wreak further havoc as it pleases him to do so," he frowned, hesitating. "Should anything ... unfortunate occur, I have left instructions with my private legal advisors to provide you with certain documents pertaining to the disposition of my estate; I'm sure I may rely on you to fulfil my final requests; you're one of the most efficient and loyal individuals I know."

As Mycroft boarded the helicopter, Jude watched, speechless, standing firm beneath the tremendous downdraft as the beast lifted up off the ground. Mr Holmes had never been as effusive before and Jude suddenly wondered if his boss was even planning to return. He shivered, though the evening was far from cool. Time alone would tell.

The sky was darkening into true night by the time the army helicopter circled an approach into St Agnes and Mycroft stared out of the nearest thickened glass window at the burgeoning lights of the villages and towns below. The old names as familiar to him now as they had been from the time when Jesus walked Judea. _Zelah_ ; _Mithian_ , _Trevellas_ ...

"The noise from the engine will alert our quarry, Mr Holmes," the helicopter pilot's voice, loud over the noise, echoed in Mycroft's earphones. "Are you sure you don't want me to have us put us down far enough away to minimise discovery?"

"By now, he already knows we're coming," Mycroft replied at the same volume. "He will know it's me, but I'll keep him occupied until the entire unit is deployed and can close the trap," he added. "I'll make my escape while he's being kept busy. Are the explosives in place?"

"No time to rig sufficient explosives safely, sir," the Captain of the small, elite unit of commandos shouted, breaking in on the conversation. "But HMS _Dauntless_ is hanging just off the coast and has agreed to lend us a hand with a spot of target practice," the man was grinning, Mycroft could hear it in his voice. "They've already been provided with precise co-ordinates and only need a signal to launch a guided strike missile on a radio-signal command from this," he held up a small black box in the palm of his hand. "Thirty seconds after the signal is sent, I'm afraid the cliff-erosion at St Agnes is going to become a great deal worse."

"How do you plan on covering up such an explosion?" Mycroft shouted back. "The blast alone will alert the locals."

The man grinned again, white teeth gleaming in the blacked out chopper. "There've been several old World War Two sea-mines coming ashore in these parts of recent; they make a hell of a din when they go off. We'll simply stick with that as a cover story for both the explosion and the damage to the cliff."

It was, Mycroft had to admit, a fairly ingenious solution at such short notice. There was only one more thing he needed. He held out his hand. "As I'll be going inside, I think I should have the remote signaller since it is my intention to incapacitate our target before we consign his mortal remains to the deep," he said.

"I have two remotes, sir," the Captain had stopped smiling. Taking orders from a high-up government official was one thing; putting his men's lives in the hands of that same official was a completely different matter. "How will we know when you have sent the signal if we're outside and you're inside? I can't risk the lives of everyone involved in the operation."

"I'll go inside first and alone, Captain," Mycroft kept his hand held out. "You will keep your men well back until you hear my signal, which I assure you, you will. At that point the task of your team is to ensure our target does not escape through your cordon if he manages to make it past me. Is that understood? You and your men are to come nowhere near the place when I am inside; you are here strictly to ensure the target does not escape until the situation has been ... resolved."

"But you may still be inside when the missile from the _Dauntless_ hits the co-ordinates! You're placing your own life at risk in order to keep the target pinned down ... why?" the commando officer was clearly baffled at Mycroft's apparent willingness to sacrifice himself for the sake of the operation's success.

"Don't worry, Captain; I am not as unused to combat situations as you might think," Mycroft crooked his fingers. "The spare remote, if you please."

With clear reluctance, the commando unit leader handed over the relatively innocuous-looking box. There was a simple switch on one side, protected by a lightweight plastic cover; strong enough to avoid accidental activation, but easy enough to crush through when the action was intended.

By the level of the external horizon, it was clear the helicopter was descending. It would be a matter of minutes only before they arrived at the site of the ancient granite roundhouse and the night's events would begin to unfold. Mycroft knew that, one way or another, a vampire was going to die tonight. Possibly more than one.

The 'copter landed in an area clear except for some patches of bracken, the group's night-vision optics and lights enabling everything to be seen relatively clearly, though with a ghostly greenish glow. Mycroft had accepted a set of the cumbersome goggles, even though he had little need of them; there was still more than ample light for a vampire's eyes. And though he was still dressed in his City-suit, Mycroft managed to navigate the snarled undergrowth with an almost supernatural grace, slipping between the stunted, gnarled and strangely-leaning trees as the group homed in on the location of what he knew would be Daveth's sanctuary.

Lifting his arm in silent command, the Captain gave out a further series of rapid hand-movements, placing his men in a semi-circle around the looming stone building with approximately fifty-feet in between each man. The compact M12s Mycroft noticed each soldier carrying could easily cover that kind of distance, so nothing larger than a rabbit fleeing from the vicinity would be able to make it clear of the place unscathed.

And that was the critically important thing. If he wasn't able to deal with Daveth alone, then he'd make damn sure the man was as seriously injured as possible, thus making a clean escape impossible. There was no way an injured vampire could jump down to the sea; the cliffs around St Agnes were almost vertical and sheer, with lethally jagged rocks lying just beneath the surface of the frothing ocean hundreds of feet below. If anyone attempted to make an escape in that direction, they'd be broken into pieces. Which left only one other way to run; _inland_. And the commandos were now carefully arranged in such a manner that even though they were all well back from the building itself, there was no possibility a man could make it through such a cordon unobserved. It was at that point that the flamethrowers would prove their worth.

But in the meantime, it was up to him to initiate the operation. "Have your men stay on constant alert until you receive my signal," Mycroft spoke softly now in the commando captain's ear. "It will be loud and unmistakable; as soon as you hear it, draw back while maintaining formation but get them away from any potential blast-radius, as I shall also have signalled the _Dauntless_ , understood?"

Not terribly happy, but aware now that the civilian standing in front of him wasn't entirely without combat experience and who had far too much authority to be easily overridden, the army officer nodded briefly. If the man had a death-wish, then so be it. As long as his men were safe and, given that each one was currently cradling a very nasty-looking weapon which dealt instant death by fire, he wasn't overly fussed what the man Holmes felt he had to do. One way or another, the operation would be successful.

Satisfied that there was no move now for Daveth that would not lead to his certain demise, Mycroft took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and stepped forward towards the strange round building. There was a faint pathway running through thinning gorse and bracken, and though most people would have thought it nothing more than a fox-trail, judging by the indistinct indents of large shoes faintly outlined in the moonlight, Mycroft knew better. His thoughts settled into a peculiar kind of calm now that there was real evidence and confirmation of recent human traffic. The vaguely-shaped footprints led directly towards the dwelling, and none led away. Daveth had returned here after their meeting in St James's Park and had not left since; the vampire was inside and probably aware even now that both he and a dozen men were in the near vicinity; if Mycroft could make out their combined heartbearts, it was almost a given that so too could the older vampire.

Abandoning his night-sight goggles as soon as he was far enough away from the commandos to avoid raising suspicions, Mycroft walked steadily along the faint track, finding that he was heading towards an almost overgrown, half-hidden door set deep into the wall of the circular building, almost invisible among a number of massively tall stones leaning almost up against the carved wall itself. As Jude Roberts had been at pains to point out earlier, there were no visible windows anywhere on the curved walls, not a one. This meant that unless there was also a means of ingress through the roof, then this door was the only way in and the only way out. He'd need to remember that.

Searching for a handle, Mycroft didn't bother to knock; his presence would already be known in any case. Locating an ancient bar of solid iron embedded within the massive door, he lifted it up hard, grunting as the extreme weight demanded far more than he was expecting; it seemed the door was made of the same stone as the rest of the building. No human could have opened this without the aid of heavy-duty machinery; another way Daveth ensured his existence remained undisturbed by any passing hiker. He left the door fractionally ajar as he stepped inside

The darkness within was complete, though Mycroft could sense a large space around him. There was the smell of recent wood smoke in the air; of candlewax and leather, as well as the lingering fragrance of an expensive cologne. He could also make out the scent of many books, a perfume he recognised only too well from his own great collection. Using every means at his disposal, he searched for the other vampire. There was nothing, and so he waited for the slightest sound, the most nebulous sign that he was not alone. It came far more readily than he'd expected.

The rough scrape of a match and the sudden flare of a candle's flame, the illumination increasing as several other candles, enormous white church candles, were added.

"I knew you would find me at some point, though I did not expect to see you quite so soon, _Mycurrought_ ," Daveth spoke softly, the faintest edge of menace in the words. "And you have left all your companions outside in the dark," he added. "Hardly polite."

"I am not without some authority and resources in this modern world," Mycroft kept his eyes fixed on the older vampire. "Finding you was not as difficult as you might think."

"Thus you felt the need to repay my visit to you," Daveth's tone was distinctly mocking. "And you brought friends," he added, pausing. "Or are they dinner?" As Daveth had been speaking, he had continued lighting candles and now the large space was fairly blazing with flickering light. He turned back to Mycroft, a strange smile on his bearded face. "Welcome to my castle."

The interior of the roundhouse was as unique as its exterior and quite breathtaking, with the immense space inside the circular bastion forming a single incredible room. Fifty feet high and almost the same in diameter, the vast stone walls held the history of several thousand years. The floor beneath Mycroft's feet was of solid oak, great hand-carved slabs of the stuff, formidable enough to outlast the wear of centuries; polished to a gleam by the endless passage of a single pair of leather-shod feet. A prodigious central chimney ran all the way from the floor to the roof high above. Suspended by immense blackened iron supports emanating from the curved wall like spokes in a wheel, the chimney vented an enormous circular fireplace, altogether a piece of engineering so brilliant that Mycroft could not recall seeing its like elsewhere on any of his far-reaching travels. As the fire burned, the stone chimney would heat, radiating dry warmth throughout the entire volume of the chamber. And what a chamber.

The extensive floor space held substantial pieces of furniture; solid wood and leather couches, some made in the Roman style. A very large desk, opened and covered with papers, jars of quills and tape-tied scrolls. Open bookcases that seemed to spread up and around a good half of the wallspace, and a single stone staircase in a shallow spiral up and around the inner wall, the staggered heights of the various bookcases acting as a crude secondary stair from one case to the next. The narrow stone steps rose up around the outer edge of the room passing great cabinets and lockers which had been built into the walls themselves, leading eventually to the roof and a darkened area that looked like a hatch. Each piece of storage might be reached with ease by anyone standing on the stair, some cupboards more than large enough for a grown adult human to stand inside. Between these, the bare granite expanse was liberally covered with oil paintings of immense dimensions, each one depicting some great national scene; battles, coronations and the old kings. Candlelight from numerous iron sconces now glinted and reflected from the thick gleam of the ornate golden frames. Any stone that wasn't covered by book or painting was graced by thick tapestries of significant age and historical import and interspersed by ancient musical instruments. The roundhouse was a living museum.

In the brief moment it took Mycroft to assimilate and absorb these details, he felt a pang of sadness. In another time, he would have sought Daveth out as a companion and friend; someone with whom to share the wonders of each passing age and to marvel with him at the new sensations in science and medicine and culture. In another time, he would have loved to browse through the wondrous books he could see waiting in their shelves as well as introducing Daveth to his own mighty collection. But it was not to be. The man was clearly unwilling to embrace the new world or to see that sometimes the old ways needed to become flexible in order to survive.

"You know, of course, why I'm here," Mycroft stood more firmly just inside the door, both hands clasped in front of his body. There was little purpose in beating around the bush. "I find I am unable to accept your proposition and will not be facilitating the death and transformation of either my housekeeper or my ward merely to keep your good opinion," he said, quietly. "Nor will I demean myself by taking another's life coldly and unnecessarily, simply to maintain the gratuitous and inhuman conventions that you demand. If you persist in your course of action, there will be unfortunate repercussions; I give you fair warning; give me your word now that you'll desist and leave my family and I alone, and I will return to London tonight and leave you in peace for the rest of your days."

Daveth listened without any change of expression, but when Mycroft ceased speaking and seemed to have nothing more to add, he laughed harshly. " _Desist?_ " he scoffed. "Desist and leave you to weaken the strain of our people that has lasted longer than the pyramids? Longer than the mountains and the rivers themselves? _Desist?_ I am glad now that you have returned to me so that I may unmake such a feeble excuse of a successor and create a new one _while there is still time for me to do so_ ," the big man growled, his voice rising in volume to a near-shout. Daveth stamped forward towards the centre of the floor, his eyes wide and brilliant with fury, his grin a manic thing as his unnatural canines unsheathed themselves and glinted ivory-white in the candlelight. "Defend yourself, Mycurrought," he hissed. "For one of us will not leave this place again," he growled. And lunged.

Prepared for this from the instant he'd set foot inside the building, Mycroft leaped away from the door, pulling down the nearest bookshelf, spilling the precious collection down onto the floor where the books broke apart, their pages and illustrated calligraphy still bright and sharp. In the scant seconds that Daveth's attention strayed across his treasured artefacts, Mycroft had reached into his jacket pocket and extracted the hefty silver dagger he'd taken from the chest beneath his library earlier. A strange-looking weapon; the blade was thick and extraordinarily pointed, and the two shoulders were broad, with each curved slightly up and away from the hand that wielded it, running parallel with the blade and forming a shallow U, with the blade located in the centre. The points of each of the blade's shoulders were also sharp and lethal; a three-pointed killer.

As Daveth lashed out again, Mycroft sidestepped, allowing the bulkier man to shoulder past him, turning as he did to grab Daveth's trailing right arm and pin it high up against one of the embedded oak blocks that framed the single door. Pulling back his hand before driving the dagger mercilessly into the older vampire's wrist, Mycroft ensured the silver knife was embedded so deeply into the block behind, that Daveth was effectively pinned. Even the dagger's twin shoulders were embedded deep into the ancient timber. His Maker could not escape now, at least not until he was able to work himself free which he could not easily do without leaving his hand behind.

" _You fool!_ " Daveth shouted viciously as Mycroft backed away towards the small gap he'd left between the door and its frame when he'd entered. "You surely cannot believe in the old stories that a silver knife can damage one of our kind? As soon as I am free of this, I will rip your head from your shoulders and then destroy the pitiful remnants of your so-called _family_ ," he laughed manically. "This blade can neither injure me not keep me from wreaking my rightful vengeance!"

"Perhaps not, but these probably can," Mycroft reached back into his pocket, extracting two World War Two fragmentation grenades. Pulling the pins of each, he dropped one either side of the trapped vampire where they rolled into the dark, before slipping outside and pulling the stone door closed behind him. Pushing two of the large standing stones against the door, Mycroft reached into his other pocket to find the remote signal activation device which he crushed beneath his thumb as he sprinted away from the roundhouse.

There was only a four-second delay on each of the grenade's fuses, insufficient time for Daveth to rip his arm free, find both explosive devices and somehow dispose of them without personal risk. Even as Mycroft tore back through the moonlit-streaked underbrush towards the waiting commandos, the double repercussion of two extremely loud explosions resounded forth from the old building.

" _Back!_ " he shouted. " _The missile is coming!_ "

But the Commando Captain already had his men moving the instant the grenades exploded, by now distancing themselves further and further away from the roundhouse with every second.

Mycroft had barely caught up with a trailing soldier who'd somehow snagged himself up in one of the mangled old trees, when there was a silken _swoosh_ of air, followed by an almighty detonation as the _Dauntless_ missile hit. Even though they might all be beyond the projectile's immediate blast radius, Mycroft flung himself over the man's body to ensure there would be no unplanned deaths this night.

The ground beneath his feet shook and shimmied as the explosion seemed to last forever, even though it was all over in less than three seconds. With a great roar and rumble, one hundred yards of good Cornish cliff top slipped downwards and into the ocean. Huge smoking piles of enormous slabs of granite tumbled endlessly down, ending in a dust-clouded landscape that momentarily darkened even the glow of a bright moon.

Eventually returning closer to the new edge of the cliff, Mycroft was joined by the commando Captain. "Not much left of anything, it would seem," the man observed, staring cautiously at what remained of the cliff top. Not only had the roundhouse completely gone, but the piles of tall stones and a half-acre of storm-blasted woodland had vanished as well. "Job well done, I'd say," he added, lifting his eyebrows. "Is there anything else you want us to do or are you satisfied the mission has been accomplished?"

Looking over the precipice, Mycroft stared down at the great new stack of crushed and tumbled rock, hundreds of thousands of tons of it, all there for one purpose. "Yes," he sighed and straightened his back. "Everything is done here. Please summon our transport and return me to London."

Flying back in the helicopter toward the night-time brilliance of the British capital, Mycroft found his thoughts returning to the new problem of Sherlock's discovery. How could he keep the boy safe and yet avoid any form of alienation? Now that Daveth was gone, there was no longer any pressure to do anything other than raise the child as normally as possible. But given Sherlock's insatiable desire for knowledge and his uncanny ability to ask difficult questions, how was a normal upbringing to be achieved? Mycroft leaned back against the hard steel case of the 'copter's shell and thought about the problems of raising a child. He hoped Kit Penderick was up for what would undoubtedly be a long and gruelling experience.

###

Deep within the heart of the fallen cliff, amid the crushing press of broken stone, a bloodied hand filled a small opening, the merest gap between two jagged blocks of granite. It twitched.

###

 

 **End of 'I, Vampire' Part I.**  

Thank you all thus far who've commented and left kudos for the story. I hope you will enjoy the second instalment just as much.


End file.
